


Run

by wrathwritesthings (leviathan_wrath)



Series: FFXV Dating Sim: Run [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 'cause it wasn't confusing enough, AU, All of the Tropes, Alternate Universe, An AU For Closure's Sake, Angst with a Happy Ending, BlackMage!Reader, Eventual Sex, Fluff, Game Spoilers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, Oral Sex, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Penetrative Sex, Reader-Insert, Romance, Side Stories now located in the main fic, The Kings The Oracles & The Mages, The Reader is from the Line of the Mages, Wish Fulfillment, dating sim, hence the AU tag, non-canon magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-10 01:40:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 66
Words: 423,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11681358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leviathan_wrath/pseuds/wrathwritesthings
Summary: In this world, “mage” has come to mean nothing more than "studious scholar." With this in mind, the King of Lucis' arcane advisor has been a courtesy position bestowed on the most skilled alum of Lucis' ancient college of magic: the Spire of Duscae. However, with Noctis Lucis Caelum being more than just the next King of Lucis, his awkward mage incumbent is a bit more than just another bookish hermit. In fact, they embody what it really means to be a mage.You're a twenty-year-old mage of the Iovita bloodline; able to weave spells of peerless might. You and your mother, Arch-Mage Decima, the recently retired arcane advisor to King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII, are the last of your line. Though your ancestors weren't tasked with protecting the Crystal and though the only life you’ve known has been restricted to the confines of a musty old college, you're destined for more than just hexing toads and streaming movies.





	1. 01. Meteorite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Mild Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Snark off the Charts, Just Magey Things, Totally Reasonable Methods of Transport, Second Hand Shame, Social Cues?, What are Those?, You Certainly Don’t Know

**01\. Meteorite**

It happens at night.

This is supposed to be a coming-of-age trip for you. It’s supposed to be _fun_. Well, maybe not “fun” in the traditional sense of the word, considering this is a journey of duty and professional obligation, after all... But this is your _first time_ out of the Spire, the dry heat whipping through your hair, and you’d started to foolishly hope that it would be a fun trip despite all of the duty and obligation and blah, blah, blah. 

So far, the only “fun” thing is in discovering that there are some wide gaps in your studies back at the college- and then it’s only fun to you because you take a sort of self-satisfied pleasure in realizing that the people you trusted most have failed you on a grand scale. Not that you’re a cynic by any means! You’re just the sort of person who relishes the chance to say “I told you so” on a near perverse level. Someone has egg on their face? You love that shit. You take great pleasure in knowing that the huffy, stuffy, holier-than-thou magisters back at the Spire- your home for the past two decades- have completely and utterly dropped the ball. 

It’s just... Oh, you could _laugh_! Considering your current predicament, however, you really shouldn’t find this alarming realization so humorous. Bringing your fist to your mouth, you bite down on your knuckles to keep a sardonic scoff from passing through your lips and alerting the daemon to your presence... But you know you can’t blame the magisters or your Arch-Mage mother  _too_ much as you ghost your fingertips over your staff, eyes locked on the great beast of iron that lumbers around the street, blocking you from making any progress on your trip. 

Unlike most mages and other devout scholars of the arcane arts, you didn’t make a great pilgrimage to the Spire in Duscae to hone your craft. You didn’t get exceptional marks in elemancy in university that warranted any sort of scholarship offer. You didn’t have ludicrously wealthy parents who paid to send you off to that isolated structure surrounded by lush greenery in the hopes of you becoming Eos’ Next Top Mage™.

No, you were born in the Spire. Your mother is _the_ Arch-Mage Decima Iovita herself, former arcane advisor to King Regis Lucis Caelum CXIII and current head of the Spire. You were raised on a strict regimen of heavy-reading and intermittent fasting, tough-love and a severe lack of physical affection, uptight magisters for family and reserved waitstaff for friends. If you hadn’t been born a prodigy, well, the mages of the Spire damn well made sure that you  _became one_.

That had been their MO from the college’s inception. As a slowly but steadily dying institution, the Spire has always clutched at the belief that there’s no such thing as destiny. One isn’t _destined_ to become a hero, a savior, what have you. No. Heroes aren’t born. They’re _made_. And they’re specifically and carefully made by the Spire. Unfortunately, they haven’t been able to craft a hero once (Maybe because they focused so much attention on trying to kill off your ancestors before the “old regime” got their comeuppance at the hands of your great great grandmother?). Thus, they continue to die. 

And you guess this is where the axe finally drops on the Spire’s collective neck. All of their careful planning for your future missed the mark by a mile. Because nobody had the foresight to teach you about the “real world”- the world _outside_ of the Spire. You learned _theoretical magic_ so the future King of Lucis could consult you as a master of the arcane arts. You practiced _black magic_ to protect him from harm. You don’t really “know” practical things! You’re bookish in every sense of the word.

Everyone else had lived and breathed beyond the Spire so you suppose it never really occurred to them that you hadn’t- or maybe they guessed that you’d explored the world via internet despite the fact that they severely limited your internet use (Six, bless the memes!) or that _someone else_ would pick up the slack and take time out of their busy schedule to catch you up to speed. Even Magister Drusa, who has always been a sort of peppy life-coach to you when she isn’t teaching other students, hadn’t told you that daemons liked to _roam the streets at night_.

You’d learned about daemons, of course! You recall the many nights you’d spent pouring over texts heavy with brilliant and fantastical illustrations of the creatures that inhabited dungeons ( _not_ the streets). You’d marveled over their nightmarish visages when Magister Roe let it slip that your late father had been a daemon hunter. Even now your hand itches to wrench your phone from your back pocket and snap a life-threatening selfie with the Iron Giant and text it to your mother so she’ll shit herself. Because this is real life and not the ten pound picture-book you’ve had stuffed under your bed back in the Spire since you were eight. 

But anyway... the point is you’d _never_ received the lecture about how daemons literally rip through the fabric between realms to amble around on highways like drunkards looking for a fight in the dead of night. Never. Never _ever_. So, unaccustomed to the peculiar plague of daemons that haunted the darkness outside of the Spire, the sight of the setting sun didn’t quicken your pulse like it should have. In fact, you’d awed over it, nearly driving off the road and into a pissed-off voretooth that growled and scampered away from the loud moped as it sputtered and hiccuped. 

As your little chocobo-yellow scooter puttered away down the road to the Crown City, you vaguely wondered if you should stop for gas, still blissfully unaware of the threat. Eyeing the vibrant red ticker that was such a garish color for the purpose of drawing your gaze to the fuel gauge, you grimaced when you realized that the little red hand was dropping closer and closer to that dreaded, bolded **E**. Reluctantly, you hanged a hard left and came to a jerky stop at a gas station, its location pinging on the map that you’d seared into your mind’s eye.

Just to be sure of your whereabouts, you pulled the laminated map from your backpack (both hand-me-downs from Magister Talmudge, a standoffish octogenarian who always called on you in lecture, to your chagrin) and double-checked the line of red marker that Drusa had made before sending you off to meet with your mother for one last time. Fingers bumped against the Arch-Mage’s parting gift, an old tome that she’d handed you along with some cryptic words and damp eyes, before returning the map to its place atop your clothes. Ah! And your _clothes_ … 

King Regis had taken the opportunity to have Crownsguard attire sent to the Spire a week ago so that you would be properly outfitted to see Prince Noctis safely to his wedding. Your mother had cried when they arrived but she didn’t know that you knew. You had got a little teary yourself, but only because you’d found out the prince’s trip to Altissia was more of a bonding trip with his dearest friends- which you most certainly are _not_. This fear was assuaged a bit with the letter King Regis had sent along with the clothes, assuring you that Prince Noctis was eager to meet his soon-to-be arcane advisor. The letter was full of praise and reassurances and for that you were thankful.

You’d met the king on one occasion when you were a child. It had been the only time that you’d left the confines of the Spire just to enter the confines of yet another intimidating building. The palace was massive and filled to the brim with tightly-wound strangers who watched your six-year-old self like a cast of hawks. You vividly remember how some of them seemed almost afraid of you, but even now you peg it on them being intimidated by your statuesque mother...

There were eyes and ears everywhere in the throne room but the king had cracked a secret smile at you while he spoke with your mother. He had wanted you to stay in the Crown City but the Arch-Mage had assured him that you would be properly trained in the Spire. Perhaps he knew you would have a lonely life in the dimly-lit college where not a single person who took permanent residence there was under the age of forty or perhaps he had hoped to make you keen on his son from an early age so that, when the time finally arrived, the prince would actually _get along_ with his arcane advisor.

You didn’t wear your Crownsguard attire because it felt strange- undeserved. Most Crownsguard trained in the Crown City and protected the royal family 24/7. But you? You read for twenty years in an isolated spire and sparred with an _actual_ member of the Crownsguard once every couple of weeks _if_ your studies allowed it and _if_ the man could be spared from his usual duties. It was always the same man: Cato. And he always said the same thing: “Damn. This place is creepy as all hell. But at least it’s nice outside, huh?” And you would always give him the same wry smile in lieu of words. Then he’d proceed to beat the shit out of you since you never trained. But I digress. 

In Hammerhead you fumbled awkwardly with the meager amount of gil in your satchel as a bubbly blonde woman filled the moped’s tank. You had insisted on doing it yourself and she’d laughed good-naturedly when you had the gas pump in your hands only to realize you had no idea what the hell you were doing. She’d cooed over the yellow contraption, asked you where you got it, bright eyes flickering curiously over your drab attire, before cheekily saying the moped was just as fascinating and eclectic-looking as its owner. That comment pulled a tortured sigh from you, closed you off to her ominous comment about it getting a bit too dark, and you were on your merry way.

So, that’s how this all happened. A culmination of twenty years with a helicopter parent, social interactions that were restricted to middle-aged men and women who talked down to you so often that it inevitably led to an inability to handle mild flirtations and jests from people in your own age group, and a lack of practical real-world knowledge that even a five-year-old child would have… All of this snowballed into you propped on a dinky little moped in the middle of a deserted street with only an Iron Giant for company. 

 _“But at least I’m a prodigy!”_ You think so acerbically that the thought almost gives you blood poisoning.

The Iron Giant slowly turns toward you, as if smelling the stench of your rotten mood, and you roll your eyes so hard that you nearly send yourself to another dimension. It honestly figures that this would be your luck- but it’s not _your_ fault! When you had asked about subjects outside of the realm of magic, you had been shushed by your instructors and told that Prince Noctis “had other advisors for those things.” Now you wonder if they all wanted you dead. What? It’s a possibility! 

Why else would they groom you for _twenty years_ in an old stone spire out in the middle of scenic nowhere and then throw you to the wolves without so much as a copy of “Eos for Dummies” tucked into your backpack? All those years of arduous training complemented by a half-assed and rushed farewell. Sure, your magic can get you out of this… _probably_. 

The Iron Giant takes two great steps towards you and the conspiracy theory grows as you brood over the fact that you never got to practice spells on enemies. You never even got to practice on that Crownsguard member. Yes, you practiced on toads, but... _those were toads_!

The daemon is close and you’re done with your inner monologuing whether you like it or not. You finally push out the moped’s kickstand and begin walking to meet the giant, hoping that it doesn’t attack while you’re still so close to Drusa’s parting gift. A hint of a smile tugs at your lips as you remember how the dark woman had sputtered when you laughed at the sight of the dinky little vehicle from her youth. She had shown it to you five years ago and let you drive it around on the narrow, overgrown paths on the Spire’s grounds. However, she never let you exit the confines of the massive wrought-iron gates that kept the beasties out and kept you in.

“All right, Mr. Giant,” you lackadaisically slide your iron staff out from its sheath on your back, the playful lilt of your voice not betraying an ounce of the fear that stirs low and cold in your gut, “time to get down to busine- Oh, shit!”

You have just enough time to shut your sassy mouth and dive out of the way of the daemon’s blade as it crashes down, splitting the earth where you once stood. The impact is so forceful that there’s a little seismic shock immediately after that nearly knocks you into a greater state of panic. It’s so dark out that you hadn’t seen the Iron Giant raise its gargantuan weapon and you had mistaken the groaning and creaking of its metal armor as its _normal_ , totally-not-dangerous moving around noises. In a flash you shoot lightning from your staff just as you hit the ground. 

You wince not only at the impact of asphalt on your right elbow but at that instinctual attack because you _know_ that it’s no use. A total waste of energy. In rapid succession you’re on your feet and backpedaling from the giant just as you flip through your encyclopedic knowledge of daemons. A blink and you see the words from the textbook behind your eyelids: _Immune to lightning, absorbs fire. Weak against blades and light._ Tongue clicking, you try to ignore the throbbing pain in your elbow (which you’re about 92% sure you skinned, which _wouldn’t_ have happened if you’d stopped being so damn weird about the Crownsguard jacket King Regis so kindly sent). You have no light magic and you have no blades. Super.

The giant swings again, mercifully horizontally, and you duck before you get an impromptu haircut. Knees sting as you take to the ground, favoring your right arm as you curl up and roll away from harm like a pill-bug. Knowing all that this beast can do (specifically _gravity_ ), you decide to cut and run, Crown City be damned. The daemon makes to close the distance between you, all hulking metal and thunderous steps. A strange thrill runs through you as you stand firm, staff held steady before you.

Brows knit in concentration as you focus into channeling your energy through your staff. It’s as if your skin is buzzing and your blood has been replaced with ice water. The staff hums in your palms. A wicked grin splits your lips once the clear crystal orb nestled in the clawed end of the staff seems to absorb what little available light there is in the dark night and pulsates. With one elegant spin of your iron staff you lunge forward as if to stab the Iron Giant in its overgrown kneecap. Magic bursts from the orb like an erupting geyser, branching out like black vines to hold the daemon in a vise before going invisible with a shimmer of energy. Everything goes eerily silent.

_“Stop.”_

Parting your lips, you let out a shaky laugh, taking a split second to admire your handiwork before turning on your heel and sprinting for the scooter. Leg thrown over the other side, you kick the kickstand back up and burn rubber. You’re speeding off back to Hammerhead with little _putt-putt-putts_ before the Iron Giant regains mobility, laughing and high off of adrenaline, ignoring how badly your hands shake and how much your heart hurts. To you, there’s no shame in knowing when to back off. You pick your fights, you don’t let your fights pick you.

It’s as you’re jetting off back to the gas station to wait out the night that it happens. You’re so busy reveling in your quick wit, thinking that maybe, just maybe you’ll be able to get by in this world, when it hits you. No, it _literally_ hits you. You’re not thinking about the rules of the road that Drusa had drilled into your head, eyes transfixed on the perplexed Iron Giant in your side mirror. There’s a flash of light and someone blares a car horn as you whip out onto the street in front of them. You swear you’ve been struck by a meteorite. 

Honestly? It’s entirely your fault. But Ignis Scientia takes the accident far harder than you and _you’re_ the one who catches air and ends up with a broken arm and a totaled moped at the end of it.

* * *

The scene feels like something you'd see in an artsy film, minus the pain, of course. 

That bright flash of light is like looking your maker in the face... if the light of your maker's face is  _supposed_ to eventually clear up to reveal a horror-stricken bespectacled man who is practically leaning his entire body weight into a car horn while simultaneously trying to steer his vehicle away from annihilating you and your dinky scooter. Then you see the night sky full of too many glittery stars to count; like a midnight cloak encrusted with diamonds and other precious gems. It rushes by as if the world has been spun like a top, leaving you with vertigo and ears full of some impossibly loud metallic crash. 

At first, you think it's the soundtrack to this bizarre indie flick. What can you say? You're pretty rattled. And then you're eating asphalt. This part isn't so artsy and you relegate it to the action genre rather than indie when you taste iron on your tongue. Maybe your limited leisure time was spent watching far too many movies?

“ _There's no such thing as too many movies_ ,” you think instantly even as your left arm screams at you for attention- screams at you that there are far more pressing matters to attend to. But your head is full of angry bees that keep you from holding onto a cogent thought.

Disoriented, you stay sprawled on the ground for a moment with your left arm trapped under you until the world rights itself. The asphalt is still warm from the desert heat; a jarring juxtaposition to the soothing coolness of the dry air. Blinking blearily, you're just able to make out a wreck of twisted, yellow-painted metal between you and a slightly banged-up car. Four figures scramble from the expensive looking vehicle as you squint under the harsh white of its headlights.

With labored breaths, you stiffly try to force yourself into an upright position, panting out a barely audible, “I’m all right,” only to collapse with a harsh shout, curling up in a ball as your left arm (the arm you'd foolishly tried to prop yourself up with) punishes you with electric bolts of pain. It's almost enough to make you puke- a sensory overload of pain and bright lights and cold and hot. Instead, you opt to pass out, the sounds of far off shouts and panicked questions chasing after you.

You don't dream. You swear you just blink and suddenly you're somewhere else.

When you wake up, you're no longer curled up on the street just shy of Hammerhead like roadkill. Instead, you're staring up at the ceiling of a too-small room with striped wallpaper that's slightly peeling in places. It also smells like someone got a  _bit_  overzealous with cleaning products- the air is thick with the tang of lemon freshener and the musk of bleach. Even the comforter on the bed you're spread-eagle on emits a particularly soapy scent. It takes a hot second (and a curdling of whatever is in your stomach) for you to determine that you need to get the hell out of here.

Flopping onto your right side like a fish, your hand lazily and loudly slaps against a wooden nightstand that you hadn't realized was there. A swear rips from you as you immediately cradle your hand, rubbing at your smarting knuckles and scowling at the scuffed-up table. Your frustration doesn't last long when you spy your phone- all sleek and black with a stylish plastic cactuar charm for character. A little flashing blue light alerts you that you have a message. In an instant you've unlocked your phone and you're eagerly scanning the texts from Drusa:

 _Hope you got there safe! Call your mom when you have the chance, sweetie. :_   _))))_

 _Hey! Sorry to nag but it's been a while. Did you stop off at a rest stop?_ _I called around and heard you’d just gone through Hammerhead._ _I know it's a bit of a drive_ _to the city_   _. Did Choco Jr. get you there safe?_

_Please call your mom. Okay? :)_

_Did you wreck Choco Jr.? Is that why you aren’t answering your mom’s calls or my texts? If you did that’s okay. As long as you’re safe. You ARE safe, right, (y/n)????_

You snort at the name of the magister's scooter and freeze as a sudden thought comes crashing down on you. You were  _hit by a car_  on the highway headed westbound for Hammerhead. How the hell did you gloss over  _that_? With the accident in mind, you push yourself up at an agonizing pace only to realize that it's all for naught because absolutely nothing hurts (aside from your bruising knuckles). A frown tugs your lips down as you experimentally stretch both arms out before you, noticing for the first time that you’re only in the standard uniform that’s permissible at the college: black pants, boots, and a gray tunic with three silver buttons at the collar. The Spire-issue dusky lavender sweater that you always sport, however, is gone.

Flexing your bare arms, you’re relieved to find that nothing is amiss. The muscle you’d formed from years of handling your staff flex without shooting a single pang of pain through you. Your left arm is unbroken and the skin on your right elbow is intact. The only thing suffering at the moment is your poor, overstimulated nose.

"Someone gave me a potion," you say to yourself, a bad habit borne from years of being surrounded by eccentric scholars with a penchant for making pointless declarations to no one in particular. And then you're thinking about the going rate of the panacea. 50 gil last you checked, right? You'll certainly have to pay your savior back. Also however much it costs to stay a night in this bed. And you have...? 1,500- no, 1,475 gil after fueling up your mope- "Crap! The moped!"

Caution is thrown to the wind as you leap from the twin-sized bed. You're too busy freaking out over the loss of your only means of transportation that you barely pay your surroundings any mind. If you had, you would’ve spotted the oversized sweater resting on the counter of the kitchenette; the sleeve stitched up expertly as if it had never been torn, folded neatly into a deceptively small rectangle to show off the Spire patch on the right breast.

Somewhere in the back of your head it registers that you're in a caravan- possibly the one you spied in Hammerhead while the blonde woman had filled up Choco Jr.’s tank. The second you swing the caravan’s door open, that subconscious suspicion is confirmed. It wouldn't be surprising if you were mistaken for a vampire. You  _do_  hiss the second the blinding sunlight beats against your face, after all. 

Luckily for you, your theatrics draw the attention of a lithe and (unbeknownst to you) habitually helpful blond man. He'd been lounging on one of the plastic chairs just outside the caravan and jolts to attention the second the door bangs open, as loud as a gunshot in the mild morning air. "Hey! You're awake!" He exclaims, blue eyes wide but not nearly as wide as the relieved smile on his face.

Like a pissed-off owl, your head swivels wildly in his direction as you bark, "Where the hell is my moped?" It takes a second for you to really start seeing him. Then you taste bile and regret on your tongue. For you see, the blond before you isn't just  _any_  loud, fluffy-haired, punk-rock-dressing so-and-so. No, you're not  _nearly_  that lucky and the universe doesn't have quite enough room for two of his kind. Or it shouldn’t. This is Prince Noctis' friend. Perhaps his  _best_  friend.

You'd studied the faces and names and backgrounds of  _all_  of the people in close contact with the prince, as customarily expected of someone in your position. All of your (meager) etiquette training was solely for the purpose of interacting with and impressing these people. And you just snapped at the best friend of the Crown Prince. Oh, if only there was a way to rewind time. I mean, there's a  _spell_  for that but those things never work out how they're supposed to.

"Your...? Oh!" The blond, Prompto Argentum, you recall, rubs the back of his head and chuckles nervously, freckled face taking on a pink hue. "Uh, well... it's... kinda...  _wrecked_."

"Wrecked," you parrot. All you can do is parrot. You'd trashed Drusa's gift in less than 24 hours and nearly bit the head off of your prince's friend. You're not exactly feeling very well, to be honest. If anyone would love to see you right now it would be your mother. She could never suppress your fiery spirit enough to get you to be quiet for longer than a minute. Though, considering the circumstances of your leadened tongue, she probably wouldn't enjoy it too much.

"Yeah." Cornflower blue eyes drop down to the pavement as Prompto toes the ground with his boot. Your eyes drop as well, fixated on the scuff marks on his black boots. The blond’s voice is soft, "Ignis is really upset about it so he'd love to know that you're okay."

Eyes fly up. You practically sound like you’re shouting compared to him. "Ignis," you repeat. "Ignis Scientia."

Something akin to alarm straighten’s the sharpshooter’s back. There’s a distinct reservation in his face as he fixes you with a serious look. "Okay, now I'm not so sure if you're all right. Maybe you should go lie-"

"The Crown Prince's strategist ran me over?"

Those blue eyes widen marginally. "It-It was an accident!" That guttural panic in his voice and the fear in his eyes gives you pause. There wasn't anything  _accusatory_  in your tone and you didn't mean to imply anything. The guy looks as though he thinks you're going to press charges like they do in those thrillers or- " _Please_  don't tell anyone about this! Noct isn't even-!"

"Why would I?" You blurt, unabashedly interrupting him.

He blinks a few times in response to your blunt question. "What?"

"Why would I tell anyone?"

Prompto squints at you, wondering if you’re playing head games or something. "Well, because we totaled your moped and you got hurt."

"Sure, Mr. Scientia flattened me on the highway but I wasn't paying much attention, to tell the truth." You simply watch as relief washes over the young man, tension leaving his body in an instant. "Besides," you shrug dispassionately and glance around the parking lot, "it would look bad on me, too."

Prompto cocks his head like a bird. "Why's that? Because you were driving recklessly?"

Upper lip twitches as you think about your lack of any formal driving education. " _That_  and it wouldn't help my burgeoning image. Imagine the things the press would say if they found out the Crown Prince's unlicensed arcane advisor greeted him by running into his car with a moped that doesn’t legally belong to them?"

"Wait. What? Who?"

It's at this moment that you realize you spent so much time learning about Noctis' inner-circle only to have them not know a damn thing about you. The tips of your ears burn. A steady heat crosses your cheeks but you try to remain aloof, maybe even haughty. You’ve never been a great conversationalist when it comes to one-on-one talks and joking  _usually_  helps defuse tension... "Hm? You  _do_  know that I'm his arcane advisor, don't you?" You simper, crossing your arms lazily, "Are you confused because you didn't think I’d be so attractive? How funny."

“ _Yeah, right,”_ you think wryly, even as your ego smarts.

"I-  _You're_  Arch-Mage (y/n) Iovita? For real?"

That damn title. You've always hated that when you  _finally_  got out of the Spire and  _finally_  joined Noctis' side, you would hold the title of Arch-Mage despite having left the Spire in your dust. There had been rumblings back in “ye olden times” to get a second title made for the arcane advisor since “Arch-Mage” was technically the title of the mage directing the Spire. However, the proposed title, “Archon,” was shot down since it made it sound like the arcane advisor had  _way_  more power than they really did. Smart move on the Crown’s part. It had been the Spire’s objective to steadily increase the arcane advisor’s clout, starting with a title change.

"Prince Noctis isn't king yet, therefore I don't officially have that title- it still belongs solely to my mother given her position in the Spire. But yeah. That's me." You shrug, trying to rid yourself of the full-body blush that you can feel prickling at your skin under the blond’s almost reverent gaze. Six, you’re feeling tense. Anymore of this and you’re just gonna have to walk right on out of this conversation. 

"That's you?!" Prompto’s eyes look a little starry and now there's no way in hell that you can hide your blush. "I can't believe we ran you over!"

Teeth bite down on the inside of your cheek, choking back a snort as you fire back, "Neither can I."

Prompto looks like he’s about to say something else when you freeze. You had been trying to keep up your indifferent persona, gaze flickering in faux-boredom around the parking lot and over the diner, before landing on two figures headed toward you from the garage. To you, it feels like the whole world freezes along with you. Afflicted by a sudden case of tunnel-vision, you walk past a confused Prompto on increasingly unsteady legs before falling to one knee before Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum himself. Heart beats in your throat, nearly choking you and preventing you from speaking. 

It’s  _him_. For years you’ve waited for this day- patiently on some days, but the majority of the time impatiently. You could spot him in a crowd- decked out in black fatigues with that raven hair of his and his seemingly perpetually brooding expression. To you, he’s always been the face of freedom, as dramatic as that sounds. Yeah... it sounds pretty dumb.

Sucking down a breath of courage, you duck your head like you’d been trained to do and announce in the strongest voice you can muster, "Your Highness, you shall not come to harm under my protection. I, (y/n) Iovita, swear a solemn oath to guide you in the arcane arts and, should the time come, lay my life down in place of yours. If you'll have me, I will see you safely to Altissia."

“ _Nailed it.”_

But do you really nail it? 'Cause the prince doesn’t immediately respond. He’s so quiet that you start to sweat. Hell, you even begin to wonder if you just swore an oath to a prince impersonator like the ones they hire to have at parties. Tension coils in your gut when the silence drags on even longer-  _way_  too long. Chancing a glance up, you see the Crown Prince with his face turned away from you, cheeks dusted a flattering but very obvious pink. Beside him, his Shield, Gladiolus Amicitia, is grinning from ear to ear. Brow quirks as you wonder what you did wrong. 

Sure, the setting is less than ideal. You making a solemn oath of loyalty in the parking lot of a roadside diner is hardly a story for the history books. Plus, you think you might be kneeling in someone’s spilled soda. Your knee  _is_  feeling kinda sticky... A couple of people have stopped to stare now. One woman whips her phone out and is taking pictures. Or maybe she's recording a video? Heat slowly begins to creep up your neck.

"Well, whataya say,  _Your Highness_? They're waiting for your answer," Gladiolus drawls, crossing his arms over his broad chest. You almost want to send a little electric zap his way for imitating your accent.

The prince shifts from foot to foot before shrugging like this is all a huge bother. "We were supposed to pick you up from the Spire anyway, so, yeah… Come with us, Iovi- (y/n)..."

You blink, the air of decorum falling around you in pieces. "What? I mean- What do you mean, my prince? I was told-"

"Stop being so formal. Just ‘Noctis’ or 'Noct'." The prince murmurs, looking thoroughly mortified, "And stand up."

In one sprightly movement you're up on your feet and pinning the prince with an impertinent stare. "I was told to meet you in the Crown City before you departed."

"We left Insomnia like five days ago," pipes up Prompto from behind you.

" _Five_  days?! But I left the Spire yesterday!"

"Er, we had some car troubles and we needed to earn gil to pay for repairs, so..." the blond trails off guiltily.

"And we're gonna need to earn even  _more_ now," Gladiolus adds, rubbing salt in the wound with a straight face.

Your eyes narrow to slits. "So, you’re saying you forgot about me?"

"No, of course not." A posh voice reassures you and you turn your hellfire gaze off of the trio to watch a tall bespectacled man exit the diner with a cup of coffee in hand. Your lips purse on instinct as Ignis Scientia explains, "We came to the conclusion that it would be prudent to pay off our debt before collecting you." 

Keen green eyes appraise you from head to toe before the strategist nods approvingly to himself and if you squint you can see he looks like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. “It’s good to see that you’re all right, (y/n). I apologize for my carelessness.”

“ _Well, at least someone knows who the hell I am without me doing introductions.”_

And now you know why everyone was in such a rush to get you out of the damn Spire, too. Five days had passed since Noctis left Insomnia.  _Five days_. They'd all assumed the prince simply forgot to pick up his arcane advisor and who could blame them? The whole tradition of breeding an arcane advisor for the King of Lucis is stuck in the realm of antiquity. Lucis' kings have always been proficient in magic so the position you inherited is a purely decorative and highly political one.

If you recall your Spire history correctly (and of course you do), there was  _one_  king who was just  _okay_  with magic. It didn't interfere with his duties in the slightest but the Spire swooped down like a rabid cockatrice and dug its talons into the royal advisory board the second they caught wind of that tidbit of gossip. Ever since then, the Spire has groomed mages for the illustrious and frivolous position. If it wasn't for good ol’ Arch-Mage Hermes, the institution would've been just another stuffy, elitist college with the misfortune of being in perhaps the most inconvenient location in all of Eos. 

That location alone would've eventually killed the place millennia ago, astronomical tuition aside. And, okay,  _sure_ , once in a blue moon the arcane advisor might have a little nugget of wisdom to impart on the king but it's rare. Like, super rare. So rare that the Spire always marks down the occasion just to have something to pat their back over and the advisor in question gets a nice oil portrait in the grand hall. A portrait so large that if it fell off the wall it could likely kill someone.

You highly doubt you'll be seeing a portrait of yourself before you breathe your last breath. Word on the street is that Noctis is highly skilled in elemancy. And with Noct marrying the Oracle, of all people? Well, your presence is a moot and very touchy point. To say that the magisters had been pissed would’ve been the understatement of the century. They all took the engagement as a personal attack- a  _political_  attack on the Spire. 

The Spire had been very vocal about their disdain for the whole arrangement despite the importance of the treaty, saying that they felt King Regis was trying to squeeze them out of court. The Spire didn’t do itself any favors by slandering the Oracle, either. 

It had been  _ugly_  with a capital “U” but luckily kept out of the public eye. And from the politely reserved looks on Ignis’ and Gladiolus’ face? Well, they’re close enough to the royal family to know of the Spire’s caterwauling and King Regis’ very public announcement about his respect for the close relationship between the Crown and that most ancient and prestigious college for Lucian mages. Hell, they probably think you’re just as politically motivated and underhanded about your entering Noctis’ inner-circle as the Spire. Oh… Oh  _yeah_. You can already tell that this is going to be a tense trip.

“ _I’m the most skilled mage outside of the Spire second only to the Oracle herself,”_  you assure yourself, teeth set on edge when you realize you've waited far too long to respond to your fellow royal advisor.  _“_ _All I have to do is prove I’m worthy to stand by the prince’s side. Prove I’m an asset…_ _not a snake_ _.”_

Shaking off your insecurities, you offer the prince and his allies a polite smile and a clipped, "It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Scientia. The accident was entirely my fault and I’m just happy to be of service."


	2. 02. Confidence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, you call your mom “mother,” Norman Bates. Sorry for making you all angsty but it’s hard being a sheltered mage in a less than understanding world. You’re a bamf, though. I promise.
> 
> **Warnings:** Weirdly Strained Parent-Child Relationship (sorry y’all), Misplaced Angst, Gladio’s Flirting Crimes Against Mages, Violence, Language, Violence, Vague Mentioning of Adults Bullying a Child, Second Hand Shame Strikes Again

**02\. Confidence**

Everything happens quickly. You go from swearing fealty to Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum with all the pomp and circumstance that had been expected of you to squishing him against the interior of the Regalia in the blink of an eye. There isn’t any time to check on the remains of Choco Jr. in Hammerhead’s garage before you’re being rushed off in the pursuit of creatures and gil- in that order.

“Don’t worry,” Prompto shoots you a reassuring look over his shoulder, having called shotgun before the Regalia had even left the garage looking like it had never even flattened a mage, “we’ll pay off those repairs and you’ll have your moped back in no time!”

“My moped?” You perk up, as stiff as a board between the guy you’re supposed to serve and his massive bodyguard- staff laying across your lap and Gladio’s (he _insists_  that he doesn’t mind, one dark eyebrow quirked and an amused smile on his lips). Every time your left knee gets so much as a millimeter into the space you dubbed the prince’s “bubble,” you recoil and nearly slam your right knee into Gladio’s. 

“It was salvaged?” You ask.

“I didn’t hit you  _that_  hard,” Ignis murmurs and you can see a crease form between his perfectly arched eyebrows as he shoots you an unamused glance in the rearview mirror, “I hit the brake, not the gas.”

Despite your unease, you feel your lips quirk into an impish smirk. “And the horn, too, if I remember correctly. You were practically resting on it like it was a pillow.”

“You remember the accident?” Gladiolus rumbles from beside you and you nearly elbow Noctis in the ribs to look up at the Shield. Six, the leather of the Regalia’s seats is doing absolutely nothing to make moving around and  _not_  sliding into Noct any easier.

“Yeah.” You’re grinning now and that makes Gladio grin even though he has  _no_  idea what you’re on about. Guess he’s just an easygoing guy. “I made eye-contact with Mr. Sci- I mean, Ignis. It was kind of romantic.”

The sigh from Ignis coupled with the collective laughter of the others makes you all warm and fuzzy on the inside. You’re positive Ignis is damning Noctis right now for telling you to be “casual” and “just be yourself” after you’d fumbled with your etiquette training like a drunk juggler. 

“We already ran you over, I’d say we’re a bit beyond formalities at this point,” the prince had chuckled and you were struck by his easy sense of humor. Truth be told, you had a hell of a time trying to get an audience that would be appreciative of your particularly dark brand of humor back at the Spire. The mages were either wary of you and your status as the Arch-Mage’s erudite child (hell, they treated you like the spawn of Ifrit most days) or they were totally humorless. 

And your mother  _rarely_  humored you- always so busy overseeing admissions and finances and her own various research projects even though she had people to do the former for her. If you swaggered into her office with some acidic wit on your tongue and mischief in your eyes, she would just nod with a pleasantly strained smile and ask how your studies were going- a none too subtle order to get back to the old grind. Now? Your repressed humor has come out to play.

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be,” Gladiolus suddenly admits, side-eyeing you just as Ignis brings the car to a gentle stop on a dirt road.

“What’d you think I’d be like?” You query, feeling anxiety quicken your pulse.

“ _Here it comes,”_  you think,  _“the inevitable rumors of: The Arch-Mage’s kid is some weirdo dungeon-dweller.”_

Noctis eagerly opens his door and slides out of the Regalia, slides  _right out of that conversation_ , and you’re quick to follow. The air is hot and dry, making you instantly regret throwing on your sweater- gods, you can  _already_  feel your shirt sticking to your back. With a cursory look around, you take note that there’s nothing but desert as far as the eye can see with the occasional rock formation breaking the pale blue horizon. Just to be on the safe side, you commit these formations to memory in case you need to recall landmarks.

“Mean,” Prompto admits with a shrug of his bare, freckled shoulders that are already starting to burn an alarming pink under the sun, answering your question before Gladiolus can take a stab. “The old advisor was  _really_  mean. When she would come around, entire streets would get shut down in Insomnia and she was always really cold and condescending in interviews."

“You mean my mother?” You snort and the sharpshooter’s eyes nearly pop out of his head. Guess he forgot the relation already. "And trust me, I can be cold. We've known each other all of ten minutes. I think it's in my blood, actually. Like I'm half naga or something."

“Not just mean but humorless,” Gladiolus adds, ever the blunt talker and completely glossing over your self-deprecating joke. “Spire mages have a bad reputation for being a bunch of assholes. Once they're out roaming around in the real world, they act like everyone owes 'em somethin' for nothin’."

“Scary, too,” comes Noct’s low voice from beside you and you turn your wide eyes onto him.

“ _Et tu, Noctis?”_

What's this fresh hell you've walked right into? Everyone’s making it sound like they expected you to be some sort of authoritarian nightmare with a pretty staff... Well, you  _did_  ask what they thought you'd be like, didn't you? It's just that you weren't expecting a verbal gangbang. No wonder they postponed picking your sorry butt up. “Scary? Seriously?” A scoff tumbles off of your lips. Honestly, you'd argue you're the least scary thing to come out of the Spire in centuries. "Way to generalize, guys."

"You asked," Gladio points out.

“Let’s just find the dualhorn that’s been giving the locals trouble, shall we?”

And that solidifies the image of Ignis as peacekeeper that you’d slowly begun forming since you met the guy. Staff in hand, you follow the troupe as they make their way through the desert and toward some sparse greenery. Internally, you complain the whole time. You’re not nearly comfortable enough with the guys to bitch aloud. Then again, Noct and Prompto do plenty of it for you, much to Gladio’s frustration (How many times can he tell Noct to take off his damn jacket before the prince finally listens?). And of course, when nothing happens for a solid minute, your daydream-prone mind wanders.

A large part of you is glad to know what the guys expected of you and that, so far, you've exceeded their admittedly low expectations. In truth you weren't really  _that_  surprised about their poor opinions of Spire mages. The unfortunate reality is that the majority (not all) of the students you crossed paths with were entitled brats. Such is the nature of your profession. Mages usually end up being parasites looking for fat, wealthy hosts to coast them through life. And the Lucian military is always accepting mages into its ranks as healers, soldiers, and paper-pushers to live on that sweet, sweet taxpayer money. Gotta have some sort of safety net after going into debt at the Spire.

But speaking of first-impressions, so far the guys are exactly how you guessed they would be. After all, you  _did_  do a substantial amount of research on them. However, you don't vocalize this. No need to create that creeper image you were so fearful they already had of you.

_Bzzt!_

Jolting to attention, your hand flies to your back pocket and you pull out your phone- the little cactuar charm snagging your sweater and pulling a thread loose. Damn! With all the excitement, you never texted Drusa or called your mother back. Face scrunched up in guilt and apprehension, you open the text to find the expected reprimand. It's all in caps with superfluous punctuation, to boot. And she made a typo which means the anger is real. 

_YOU WREKED THE KING'S CAR?!?!?!_

"Um, Pri- Noctis?" You call out to the prince, coming to a halt and scrolling through your contacts before hovering your thumb over the call button. When the young man stops to look at you, expression mildly curious, you hold up your phone with a sheepish grin and explain, "I have to check in and let the Arch-Mage know I'm with you."

All you get is a furrowed brow and a "yeah" in response. To your surprise, he doesn't continue without you and neither do the others. Instead, the men all come to a halt and wait around. They watch you with varying degrees of interest. Oh. So you're gonna have an audience for this dreaded call? This makes you preemptively lower the volume on your phone so they can't hear your grown ass get scolded like a child. She answers in the middle of the second ring.

"(y/n)."

Six, her tone sends a cold shiver up your spine. Very much aware of your audience, you plaster on a smile and respond brightly, "Hello, mother. I made it! Turns out the prince and I were in Hammerhead at the same time so I didn’t need to go to the Crown City. Anyway, I just wanted to call to let you-"

"One call in over twenty-four hours. No texts, not even with Magister Drusa. I called you fifteen times, (y/n). Fifteen!" She takes a breath and you know it's going to get worse. "Get the prince here. I don't care how you do it- be a sniveling supplicant for all I care. Just get him here so I can fix what you've broken."

You turn your back on the guys when Noct's already intense gaze starts to burn through your many layers of clothes. "The Regalia has already been repair-"

"A formal apology from the Spire is more important than some grease monkey banging a wrench against a car and fixing the physical damage that you've done. This is a matter of long-standing business relations, not property damage, (y/n)."

Frustration simmers in your gut. You wouldn’t even  _be_  in this position if you’d been properly prepared and she’s acting like it’s all your fault. Teeth clench on a few choice words. You should've clenched a little harder because now you're suddenly hissing into the phone, "If you'd cared so much about the college's  _close relationship_  with the Crown, then you would've done a better job on my education, mother."

"Driving-"

"I'm talking about the nighttime, street walking daemons!  _N_ _ot_  the damn moped!" Behind you, Prompto clears his throat uncomfortably and starts trying to make idle chit chat with Noctis. He says something about owning him in King’s Knight and the prince is quick to tell him he’s going to make the blond eat his words. Gladiolus joins in on the banter but you’re pretty sure Ignis is still very much tuned into your heated conversation. What a snoop.

There's silence on your mother’s end for a moment before being broken with a harsh, "Dammit!"

A smirk pulls your lips up despite your anger. "Careful, mother. Better hope no one was around to hear _that_  one."

A long suffering sigh rattles through the phone before your mother says, sounding downright exhausted, "(y/n)..." another sigh, "I was going to tell you. There was an entire debriefing session planned for your departure-"

Aaaaaaand you tune out. Leave it to Decima to turn everything into a strictly regimented ordeal. A tension headache has already made a home in your right temple and you cut the Arch-Mage off in the middle of her laying out the scheduled topics for your exit orientation (something about daemons, bartering for goods, the value of gil, chocobo rental fees, and places where you shouldn’t eat or sleep). 

"Mother, we'll be there when Prince Noctis can make the time. He's very busy and important. Love you." You hang up and shove the phone back in your pocket with a bit more force than necessary. She knew about the accident and didn't even ask how you were. You tell yourself that she probably heard you were okay since she knew about the ordeal in the first place, but that doesn't keep you from feeling mildly disappointed and very disheartened. It’s times like this where you believe that tripe about “parental instincts” not being something that comes easy to everyone who has a kid.

“ _No use crying over spilled milk.”_ With that less than inspiring and highly unoriginal thought in mind, you turn on your heel and you head toward the group like nothing is amiss.

"Everything all right?" Noct asks, blue eyes raking over you as you swiftly close the distance between the two of you.

"Yup!" With a disarming smile, you announce, "We need to go to the Spire when you have the time- so, like, a century from now or, ideally,  _never_. Everyone there is going to kiss your boots and name their first-born after you. Gonna be a lot of kids named Noctis in like five or ten years."

As your first act of “keeping it real with the prince”- that is, treating him like a Regular Joe like he asked- you waltz on by him without further explanation, twirling your staff around like it's a toy and not a weapon capable of channeling immeasurable power. They must be able to hear you grinding your teeth. Or there’s a storm cloud over your head like in the cartoons because everyone keeps their distance, save for Gladiolus who gently bumps your shoulder as he walks by and tells you that he’s taking point since dualhorns aren’t a joke. His warning barely registers as you follow on his heels, eyes on the sky. 

It’s a struggle to stay present. It’s a struggle to not dwell on the fact that you screwed up the second you set foot outside of that ancient college. It’s damn near impossible to avoid thinking about how everyone who knows about this at the Spire is  _never_  going to let you live it down.

“ _All the more reason to never go back.”_

You’re totally sulking. And you  _hate_  that you’re sulking… and so early in the day, too! So, to prevent the image of “Extreme Sulker” from sticking with you in front of the guys and to help shake yourself out of this mood, you pick up your pace to try and talk to Gladio since you can hear the other three making conversation (though it’s still mostly bitching about the heat from Prince Wears All Black and Ignis wistfully mentioning the can of Ebony that awaits him back in the Regalia). 

“Hey, Gladiolus,” you chirp, jogging a bit to keep up with his brisk pace. You’re no good at conversation, but you held your own pretty well with Prompto earlier, so you’re feeling a little confident. 

Warm amber eyes flicker down at you and the Shield mercifully slows his roll a bit. “Hey, Magey.”

“ _Magey?_  The hell kinda nickname is that?”

The brunet chuckles, a low, rumbling noise that hits you right, smack-dab in the middle of your chest. “A pretty damn good one, if you ask me.” He looks down his strong, aquiline nose at you and snarks, “But from the look on your face, I guess you beg to differ, huh, Magey?”

A painful snort leaves you at his jest. “You bet your leather-clad a-”

The spindly little branches of a dried-up shrub snag greedily at your pant-leg and nearly make you bite your tongue as you stumble forward. Face aflame, you hastily stoop over, rip the sharp thing from your leg, and attempt to continue walking like nothing happened. Who tripped?  _You_  didn’t trip. You don’t know what that was but you certainly didn’t  _trip_ … However, one heavy hand rests on your shoulder as Gladiolus roots you to the spot, keeping you from moving on.

"Tuck 'em into your boots," Gladio orders more than he suggests, head nodding down toward your pants. When you don't immediately move to follow his orders, the large man is bending over and carefully stuffing your pant legs into your calf-high boots. The bodyguard straightens out and immediately notices your obvious embarrassment. With a half-shrug and a shit-eating grin he states, "Looks pretty boss this way, too."

You swear you'll wear your pants and boots like this for the rest of your life. Before you can thank him or make any other noise that sounds like it  _actually_  belongs to a human, Ignis is ordering everyone to be quiet. A glance over your shoulder and you spot the strategist furrowing his brow, green eyes fixated on something off to the right of the group. The sunlight reflects off of his lenses, giving him a cunning look.

You blame Gladiolus’ weird, stupefying  _endearing-ness_  for the fact that you don’t immediately join the fray. And to be honest? You get the distinct feeling that this quartet doesn’t need anyone but each other when it comes time for a scuffle. They glide easily around the massive dualhorn, parrying here and stabbing there, shooting and warping. Years of practice make for an almost hypnotizing battle dance. The hulking gray beast doesn’t stand a chance.

“ _And I won’t stand a chance of proving myself useful if I don’t stop gawking,”_  you think, suddenly snapping to attention at that realization.

The air burns your nose as you inhale sharply, sprinting up onto the battlefield and hoping you don’t get gored. "Outta the way!" You command more out of courtesy than necessity. Though your magic won't hurt the guys (you trained  _too damn long_  and on  _too many toads_  for something like  _that_  to happen), you figure it's better to give them a heads up than have them freak out when they're suddenly in the midst of one of your destructive spells. 

It takes a few seconds for them all to cautiously and curiously make their way behind you. That mass of tough gray skin and corded muscle lumbers around in panic- it’s all you see, like the world around the dualhorn has gone black. The iron in your hands purrs and heats up exponentially- it's a fine line between uncomfortably hot and so scalding that you can barely stand it. An elegant twirl and the staff cuts through the air with  _swish!_  before being quickly followed with a forceful  _crack!_  as you slam the sharp end of your staff into the dirt.

A heatwave shimmers in front of you, slowly but surely intensifying into combustible energy; a great wall of fire that pushes quickly and relentlessly across the battlefield like a red-hot tidal wave. If it were a natural occurrence, the shrubs around the dualhorn would've been nothing but little fireballs, but your magic is tuned to the dualhorn and leaves the shrubbery untouched- free to snag some unsuspecting mage's pants another day.

The tortured noises that the dualhorn makes as it finally, mercifully dies gives you a heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach. Maybe you should’ve done something different? Ended it faster? No one else seems fazed by the creature’s death like you, so you tell yourself it’s something you’ll just have to get used to. It was a menace, you rationalize, it could’ve hurt some dumb hiker... Prompto's vocal amazement serves to distract you from your discomfort, that freckled arm slinging around your shoulders and bringing you into a tight side-hug that makes you feel like you’ve been friends for ages.

* * *

You wanted to prove your worth, right? You wanted to prove that you would be an asset to Prince Noctis, that you were completely capable of protecting him, guiding him, and looking out for his best interests like a good advisor should? You wanted to prove that you were so much better than those past figureheads that the Spire served to the Crown like a plate with nothing but garnish on it (your ancestors not included in that generalization)?  _Right_?

Well, good job! Because your little fire-wall trick had piqued Noct’s interest so much that he pretty much insisted on you single-handedly taking out all of the quarry Takka, the owner of the diner at Hammerhead, was offering up a bounty for. There were only four hunts available to novice hunters like yourselves (Oh, how you’d guffawed when Takka had called you a hunter…  _You_? A  _hunter_? Ha!) and Noct had swiped them all up like a kid at a candy shop, blue eyes glinting with zeal though he only wore a ghost of a smile.

“Ready, (y/n)?” He’d asked as the five of you made your way back to the Regalia.

“No,” you’d replied swiftly, stomach in nervous knots.

Though you know Noct wants to see you in action, you have a hard time pinning the “mage goes solo” bit on him. It must’ve been Gladio’s idea with how the Shield constantly shoots you appraising looks each time you ready your staff. Or maybe Ignis? With each fight, he watches with his chin grasped between his thumb and forefinger. It  _couldn’t_  have been Prompto’s plot! The guy doesn’t seem to have a nefarious bone in his body. But boy does he enjoy it all the same, hooping and hollering at each spell.

All of those missed sparring sessions with the Crownsguard member haunt you each time you hop into the Regalia to find your next prey. You’re tired- no,  _exhausted_. This is the most exercise you’ve had in your whole life and you lived in a tower with fifteen floors and no elevator for twenty years! (Not that you never tried to talk your mother into getting an elevator installed…). Muscles ache, sure, and your joints throb, but you feel drained to your very core. The effects of performing so many magical feats in as many hours, you’re sure.

“ _At least the repairs will be paid for in no time,”_  you think optimistically… because if you aren’t optimistic  _now_  you’re probably going to go off on the prince and his entourage. You thank the Six that Cato had taught you to dodge harder than a politician in an unscripted interview, because those lessons alone keep you from getting gored, kicked, maimed, and trampled. You swear you’re walking around with one foot in the grave now that you’re by the prince’s side. This  _isn’t_  what you signed up for.

“Wow! I never expected you to be such a good fighter!” Prompto gushes as you hobble over to the group, scratched up and battered from going toe-to-toe with a particularly feisty group of sabertusks. You’re soaked in sweat and your stench alone will probably protect you from daemons when night falls. The sharpshooter either doesn’t notice your stench or pretends not to once you get close enough for him to flash his camera’s screen at you. “I got some great shots of you.  _Ooh_ , this filter looks awesome with your ice shield!”

It’s as you get closer that you realize the little shutterbug is flipping through the photos in his camera… photos that all star  _you_. Hell, you didn’t know he was taking pictures of you this whole damn time! You’re half tempted to smack the camera out of his hands, mood sour from getting pinned by one of the sabertusks only to have the guys watch on as you screamed bloody murder before making the thing blast off like a rocket with a burst of fire. Sure, they would’ve helped if they thought you were in any  _real_  danger… But you’re still miffed.

“Thanks,” you grunt none too appreciatively, earning yourself a raised eyebrow from Noct’s strategist and childhood friend. You keep your eyes glued to Prompto, ignoring Ignis. “Make sure to use a good one for my wake.”

“Nice one,” Gladio chuckles, coming up behind you and smacking down on your shoulders so hard that you swear he just compacted your spinal column. “You did good, (y/n). You’ve got a helluva survival instinct.”

“Well, if my only options are to get eviscerated or turn a creature into a shooting star, I’m not going to think too long about it,” you murmur, rolling your shoulders to make sure you can still move them. You can. And damn it  _hurts_.

“Your magic is really somethin’ else,” Noct adds, jumping onto Gladio’s praise-train and making you flush. If you blush anymore in this heat, though, you’ll surely die of heatstroke.

“Th-Thank you, Your High-er Noct.”

“Yes, it was very impressive. Aside from when you got pinned and kept looking at us,” the strategist teases before handing you your sweater which he had folded over his arm for safe keeping (you’re grateful, otherwise the thing would be nothing more than shreds at this point). 

You take it but don’t dare put it on for fear of the heat and of ruining it with your sweat. “I was  _trying_  to tap out.” You huff indignantly, carefully folding your sweater over your arm and grimacing as it immediately makes your arm almost insufferably warm. Toeing the dirt with your boot, you purse your lips and gripe, “But I guess none of you could see my hand gestures. Don’t worry… I understand. It’s not like I’ll hold it against you in future fights and take my sweet time getting to you when you call for help or anything.”

“I’ve never even seen your mom do half the things you did today,” Noct says, brushing over your empty threat.

“That’s because there was rarely any reason for the Arch-Mage to engage in combat back in the Crown City,” Ignis informs from his place beside the prince. You’d made note that the men always made sure Noct was covered in case one of the creatures got bored with chasing you around the desert and opted to pounce on the prince instead. Ignis addresses you, “I’ve heard Arch-Mage Decima is highly skilled. She personally oversaw the majority of your training, did she not, (y/n)?”

Well… she  _did_  up until about ten years ago. The majority of your time had been spent under the tutelage of magisters who can’t “do” magic the same way you can. So, when your mother became engrossed in her mysterious research a decade ago and became, for all intents and purposes, a shut-in, all of your studies became purely theoretical with the occasional practice on toads since no one trusted you enough to become your personal guinea pig- prodigy or not ( _especially_  not after you accidentally sent Magister Ingrid through a second-floor window...).

However, the Crown only allowed your mother to keep you in the Spire for your studies because they had been under the impression that you were being taught theoretical  _and_  practical magic. And you know this. So, although you  _love_  seeing people with egg on their face, you aren’t the type to throw your own mother under the metaphorical bus. Instead, you toss Ignis a winning smile (the kind that would always get you out of trouble when you were caught stealing from the kitchens), and say, “Yeah. How else would I be such a badass?”

Green eyes bore into you, studying you. Under that gaze you feel like you’ve been sized up a million times over. Oh, Six, he’s one of those weirdly perceptive people who can literally smell lies, isn’t he? A slight smile upturns the corners of his mouth and the strategist concedes, “Of course. Perhaps it would be best if we all train together sometime. It would behoove us to make sure we fight seamlessly together.”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Noct answers before you can open your mouth, clearly not catching onto the tension between you and his dear friend. Or he does and chooses to gloss over it. Either way, you’re grateful. Still, you feel wary. Should you fess up to lying? 

Tell the strategist that, no, you’ve actually been trained by a bunch of uppity assholes who act like throwing a load of herbs in a mortar and pestle-ing the damn things to death is “magic” and who have, on  _several_  occasions, called the King of Lucis’ Wall “okay” like it isn’t actually an amazing feat of epic proportions that they could never hope to be able to replicate in their lifetime? But those green eyes…

The walk back to the Regalia seems to take forever and you’re all covered in a fine layer of dirt once the wind kicks up. You were feeling drained not even a second ago and now you’re wired from that completely un-confrontational “confrontation.” The seats of the Regalia are warm from the intensity of the setting sun and you hear Noct and Prompto bickering with Ignis about sparing 30 gil for the caravan to avoid camping. 

You find yourself saying that you’re fine camping even though you’re barely even present in the conversation, too occupied with staring at the back of Ignis’ head. Green eyes glance up from the road and look at you through the rearview mirror and suddenly you find the desert entrancing. The dirt is glowing orange now, sparkling with fading sunlight as the temperature begins its steep decline. 

In reality you’re a bit bothered by the fact that a simple look from Ignis has you wanting to be truthful. You’ve been a little liar since you could talk- fibbing and telling tall tales to anyone who would listen. Your lies are what helped you keep things interesting in your limited downtime. You’d nick sweets and wine and then have the most ingenious lies to not only cover your tail but incriminate  _absolutely no one_.

“Don’t you know how much wine that roasted chicken dish needs?”

“How are we supposed to keep track of the sweets when they’re served as part of a buffet?”

The cooks didn’t get scolded for the missing wine or the vanishing pastries and you lived to steal again. No harm done! Except now your little habit of harmless fibbing has you feeling guilty under Ignis’ knowing gaze. Having grown up with a lack of a stable parental or otherwise authoritative figure in your life, being around someone who so easily takes on the caretaker and disciplinary role has you reeling. It’s not surprising that he’s like this, though, considering he basically raised Noctis.

“ _No need to get so worked up over a white lie_ _,_ _though,_ _”_  you muse, brow furrowing when you realize Ignis has pulled into a parking spot just off of the highway and nowhere near Hammerhead.

“The campsite should be right over there,” Noct says, answering your unspoken question as he hops out of the Regalia and quickly crosses the highway to a stone plateau covered in glowing runes that overlooks the empty road, Prompto on his heels.

“Wait up!” Gladio calls after the prince, exiting the car and motioning to Ignis to pop the trunk. You slide out of the car and help the Shield carry the group’s camping gear over to the site but your helpfulness ends there. 

Camping isn’t exactly something that can be done inside an ancient spire or on grounds that are dominated by a greenhouse, trees, and rocks. So, logically it follows that you have absolutely  _no idea_  what to do. Luckily for you, Gladio seems to take it upon himself to get the tent set up while Ignis gets to work making dinner. It’s as you start to slowly realize that you’re going to have to share a tent with everybody that Ignis gets your attention with a piercing look and a gentle wave. “(y/n),” Ignis calls, prompting you to stop shuffling awkwardly around the premises of the campsite and mosey on over toward him. “Do you have any food allergies? Is there anything in particular that you won’t eat?”

A smile brightens your face at his thoughtfulness, easily forgetting his judgmental stare. “No. I’m not a picky eater.”

The tactician turned chef sighs at that, “A small mercy.”

“Hm?”

“Noct is a very picky eater,” Ignis explains, much to your amusement. “He refuses to eat vegetables.”

“Really? As royalty I thought he’d have a broad palate. The cooks in the Spire were always top-notch, so I never had room to complain about my meals.” In fact, you’d go out of your way to get  _extra_  food, but you don’t say that. The bespectacled man merely hums in response. Since he doesn’t order you away and you’d rather not go back to awkwardly spooking around, you decide to stick by him and watch what he’s doing.

Back at the college, when you would grow bold enough to shirk your studies, you’d almost always find your way into a student’s room to use their unlocked tablet to stream movies or the kitchens where the cooks would take pity on you and show you how to make pastries (“Oh, that poor, bored child. Here, this might be fun!”). But pastries aren’t on the menu tonight. What Ignis appears to be carefully sculpting and compacting are rice balls. And the guy doesn’t even seem  _remotely_  bothered by you hovering over his shoulder, either. In an effort to ease some of the tension you had unwittingly built up between the two of you, you point out, “You’re very skilled at that.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

Awkward silence. 

With a jolt to your stomach, you realize you’ve been standing so close that you can smell a faint trace of his musky cologne. Gods, why didn’t he  _say_  anything?! That has you taking one giant and very,  _very_  obvious step to the right and out of his bubble. A gentle cough into your shoulder clears your throat. Perhaps it even steels your nerves. “If we camp again, I can make some cakes,” Ignis turns his head toward you, still forming rice balls, and you trail off faintly, “or...” Yeah, that cough did  _nothing_  for your nerves.

“You know how to cook?” The strategist inquires, raising an eyebrow.

“Just pastries.” Is your sheepish reply.

A small smile crosses the man’s features and he nods. “Yes. That would be a lovely treat, (y/n).”

You stare. And stare. It isn’t until Ignis furrows his brow and puts down the rice ball he was working on that you snap out of your trance and chuckle, “Okay, cool. Bye!” You barely get the last word out when you’re jogging away and stopping at the edge of camp, eyes wide and palms sweaty. Heart clenches, flutters, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“ _That was so painful! Just run me over again!”_

If it isn’t glaringly obvious from your non-discussion with Ignis and your deer-in-headlights act with Gladiolus, you’re a bit awkward. The strange thing is that this awkwardness is strictly relegated to one-on-one interactions and it’s something that you’ve never been able to grow out of. Drusa says it’s because your formative years were spent in large part interacting with groups no smaller than two: one magister and one maid-turned-nanny would take turns educating you and seeing that you were properly looked after until you came of age to start joining official Spire lectures where you were always surrounded by seven or more of your contemporaries.

The opportunity to engage in meaningful, one-on-one conversations never happened until you were fifteen and started getting progress report interviews with your instructors. Then your mother and the magisters were faced with the awful reality of the awkward, bumbling creature they’d created. Even with people you’d known all your life (save for Drusa and your mother), you’d stammer, stare, and agonize over silences that weren’t even awkward until you  _made them that way_. All socialization seemed to have flown out of the window. Which they all thought was  _super weird_  because you were totally okay with groups- even groups of  _strangers._   

Your one-on-one interactions with Gladio and now Ignis have you mentally face-palming. Earlier in the morning when you’d met Prompto and managed to keep your cool (albeit under a haughty veneer and with lots of blushing), you foolishly thought you were getting better- hell, you thought maybe getting  _run over_  or getting out of the oppressive Spire was what you needed to jump-start your people skills. The false hope your talk with Prompto had given you was the catalyst for you even bothering to engage Gladiolus in conversation in the first place. But the verdict is in: Nope. Nuh-uh.

You’re like a battery that can’t hold a charge. When the conversation starts, everything seems okay- your interpersonal skills are actually passable and you come off as witty and a bit charming with a hint of an entitled edge. It’s as the conversation continues that the charge rapidly depletes; you start looking around wildly for someone else to engage or some escape. Words come to you slowly, responses are delayed, insecurities rise. And then you run.

The running part always threw the magisters for a loop and some of them even made a joke of it. It was only Drusa with her background in observational science (she _is_  the one who wrote that massive book you treasure that gives a detailed account on daemons and wildlife in Eos) who pinned it on an excitatory flight-or-fight response. She speculated that somewhere in your childhood you learned to associate one-on-one time with confrontation and uncomfortable feelings that you desperately wanted to escape. Since fighting wasn’t even an option, your natural inclination became to turn tail and run.

Oh, the jokes that were made about how  _childish_  you were. And you sure as hell didn’t enjoy being compared to an anak calf Drusa had once observed that got separated from its herd and couldn’t function one-on-one with members of its new herd once it became an adult, thus leading to it getting rejected by the new herd... You just hope the prince and his friends don’t catch on to your quirk and realize you’re the transplanted anak. Honestly, a small part of you yearns for the usual duties of the Arch-Mage that are expected of you... where you’ll only be spoken to during crowded council meetings.

If Ignis thinks you’re weird as hell, he doesn’t say anything. He simply tells everyone that dinner is ready and you all sit around the campfire, chowing down on rice balls and telling stories. It’s as you’re listening to Gladiolus talk about how difficult and rewarding his training as Noct’s Shield was, his story peppered with expletives, that Noct suddenly states, “You know, (y/n), the weirdest thing about you,” ooh boy you sure do cringe, “is that I didn’t think you’d swear so much.”

After your heart stops palpitating you laugh and lamely joke, “When a mage does it, it’s called  _cursing_.”

Gladio boos you and throws a small clump of rice at you for that pathetic joke. You pick the rice from your sweater and eat it. Ignis sighs and the rest of dinner goes off without a hitch. The men all talk easily in front of you, like they didn’t just meet you today (er, technically last night), and you’re able to reciprocate and hopefully ease any suspicions Ignis might have about your social skills. I mean, the  _worst_  he can think is that you got all tongue tied because you’re crushing on him. Oh, wait… that’s pretty bad. 

Shit.


	3. The Bros React to The Mage Arms™

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand now y'all get to see what these changes are and why I moved so much stuff around. This is going off of the timeline I had previously linked to on tumblr where I showed how "Run" progresses... more or less. This shouldn't be too confusing. Whatever isn't a main story chapter won't have a chronological chapter number like how the others do (e.g., I have it set up as "01. Meteorite", "02. Confidence", etc.) and they'll usually have some apology from me for the nonsense.
> 
> This was requested on tumblr originally and the request reads: _I saw MC's more-built-than-expected arms mentioned in a previous ficlet now I can't stop thinking about it~~~ Since MC is always covered up, can you do the chocobros' reactions to first seeing RunMC's arms from all the staff wielding (and tome lifting lol)?_
> 
> Without further ado...

** The Bros React to The Mage Arms™ **

** Noctis:  **

He sees your arms when he loses his last lure and your keen little eyes spot it near some reeds. It’s just the two of you out on the pier and you’d been reading from your grimoire when you heard your prince swear under his breath. Naturally, you have to do _something_ to make him feel better.  And what’s a wet pair of pants and drenched undershirt if it gets your raven-haired pal smiling again? Though, you don’t really know that he’ll forget the lure entirely for the sight of you... 

“Don’t bother,” Noct grumbles, feeling his cheeks warming up as they always do when you go out of your way to do something for him. Usually it’s when he finds out that you sold all of the little knickknacks you tend to pick up just so you could buy him a sweet from a pitstop.  But now you’re going to wade into the lake to retrieve his lure? 

Shrugging your cardigan off, you quip, “Why spend gil when I can clearly see the lure, Noct? You’re being unreasonable. Besides, how lucky is this? It’s like that bastard fish _wanted_ you to have it back!” 

“You’re being cheap.” 

“Excuse me?” You scoff and throw the bulky sweater at him before going to work on your boots. “At least I know the value of money. And no lure should cost over 50 gil, I’m just saying.” 

The prince rolls his eyes and folds your sweater over his arm. He’s about to fire back at you for being such a tightwad but the words get stuck in his throat the second your shirt hits him in the chest. Blue eyes stare, transfixed, as the muscles in your forearms flex with the motion of rolling up your pant-legs.  He looks away so fast that he nearly gives himself whiplash the second you right yourself. How the hell do you have more muscle tone in your arms than him? He uses swords- even _greatswords_! In truth, he’s never even held your staff before so he doesn’t know that the thing weighs more than he might think. 

The whole time you wade into the lake, he’s thinking about your arms. Those _damn arms_! He f eels a bit self-conscious, to be perfectly honest. Luckily for you, he’s so wrapped up in thoughts of your toned arms (and how he’d like to be wrapped up in them) that he doesn’t hear you scream when a fish brushes against your leg. 

** Prompto:  **

He’s the first one to walk in on you while you’re changing. It’s inevitable, actually. With one tent it’s not like anyone is really afforded much privacy. You’ve no real issue being caught in your underwear in such a context, though...  Okay, so you _might_ have an issue with it. But you can play it off splendidly if the other party doesn’t make a big deal out of it. If they back out graciously or cover their eyes? Yeah. That’s something you can work with. 

Except that Prompto Freakin’ Argentum doesn’t act like a normal person walking in on his mage pal in their undies. His immediate reaction is to try and defuse the tension with witty commentary on your underwear but then...?  He sees _them_. 

Mages aren’t supposed to be cut. Okay? They just aren’t! It defies natural laws! Just like how you weren’t supposed to be so cute and yet here you are. And Prom’s so caught off guard that he can’t even compliment you on your hearts-and-moogles undies.  The blond’s face is redder than a Lucian tomato as he sputters, “Nice- I- Wh-What? You? _A- Arms_?!” 

Skin is pure fire but you smirk haughtily and snark, “Yes, Prompto, _I have arms_. Now I understand how you’re such a splendid shot. You’ve a keen eye. _Nothing_ gets by you.” 

And then you begin to dress. But he doesn’t move. Like some sort of voyeur, he remains crouched in the tent’s entrance, blue eyes wide and unblinking. It’s a shared nightmare, to be honest. You almost rip the back of the tent open to escape but you have to save face.  What better way to save face than to ruin someone else’s? 

As you brush by the sharpshooter whom you accidentally turned to stone from the mere sight of your arms, you quip, “By the way, you’re quite welcome for the show, Prompto. Maybe return the favor some time?” 

Well... he wants to die now. 

** Ignis:  **

Master of the subtle double-take. 

As casual as can be, you ask the bespectacled brunet if he needs any help with dinner prep. Though he’s a bit of a control freak when it comes to matters concerning the “kitchen” and food sanitation, Iggy accepts your kind offer and pretends he doesn’t hear your stomach gurgle happily. 

“Wash your hands first.” 

Eyes roll and you snort, “I _know_ that. I wasn’t raised by animals.” 

“Mmhm.” 

You roll your eyes once more at that sassy, dismissive hum. Because Iggy knows that you’re always picking up plants and pieces of rubbish and lately you’ve been picking up _creatures_ , too; from toads to anything avian. Ignis is positive you’re a walking petri dish at this point.  But you don’t shoot too much sass back his way. You’re trying to be helpful! And by helpful, I mean you’re helping in the hopes that the skilled cook will let you steal some bites of food before it’s all done. You’re famished, after all. 

Rolling the sleeves of your cardigan up above your elbows, you begin scrubbing your arms down like you’re prepping for surgery. Ignis is about to comment that you don’t need to be nearly so aggressive when those green eyes actually _look_ at your arms. 

Well, then. 

He supposes he shouldn’t be too startled by your physique. That staff of yours is quite heavy. He should know, considering you whacked him over the head with it when you were sparring and he practically saw stars. He could barely hear your deluge of apologies for the pain.  “All right.” Iggy nods to himself when he sees that your hands are all clean (and when he finally pries his eyes away from that hint of bicep hidden by dusky lavender sweater), “Would you please crumble this cheese for me?” 

“Sure thing,” you chirp eagerly. 

He pretends not to see you pop a piece cheese into your mouth here and there along with the tomato that he eventually asks you to slice. Just like you pretend not to notice how his gaze keeps flickering appreciatively over your forearms.  It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.  Iggy can’t help but think that it’s such a shame that you always cover up. Which is why you now find yourself being asked to help with food prep quite often. As you roll up your sleeves, green eyes watch attentively under cover of fine lashes. 

** Gladiolus:  **

It’s a warm summer morning when he spots you training by yourself away from camp in Leide. Judging by how sweaty you are, he can only guess that you’ve been going at it for about an hour.  And he has to admit, though he admires your dedication he feels a little bit miffed that after _all_ the times you’ve turned down his offer to spar, he’s finding you out here training. Alone. He thought you didn’t like training! 

In fact, he’s about to stop in the middle of his early morning run to march on over to you and confront you for constantly blowing him off and not being a team player when he sees that iron staff cut through the air with remarkable finesse.  One dark eyebrow pops up in appreciation of how artfully you handle that heavy-looking iron staff of yours. Then the other quickly follows when those amber eyes lock onto your arms and the well-defined muscles that twitch and flex. 

Damn. 

His neck grows hot and it isn’t from the desert heat. Gladio is of the mindset that you absolutely shouldn’t be so damn muscular. At all. What is even going on? First you have the audacity to be cute and then you have the gall to have nice arms? What the hell?  Completely forgetting that he’s supposed to be irritated with you for skipping out on team training, the Shield cuts his jog short to walk up to you and comment, “Nice guns.” 

That weighty staff of yours nearly knocks you on your head when you jump and lose your grip on it. So caught up in your drills, you didn’t even hear the brunet making his way toward you... or see him, for that matter.  “Thanks,” you murmur, embarrassed by that sudden compliment. Seeing Gladio’s red cheeks, you nod toward your water bottle that rests beside your grimoire off to the side of your training area and ask, “Thirsty?” 

His lips quirk. “Yeah.” 

After discovering that you actually train, Gladio gets you a sleeveless t-shirt to exercise in. Totally his unsubtle way of getting another look at those damn fine arms. He doesn’t try to strong-arm you into joining his sparring sessions, though, but you eventually spar with him as thanks. 

Just wait until he sees your back. 


	4. Slap on the Wrist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're the newbie and Prom and Gladio think you’re a judgmental mage (and they desperately want to impress you). Their imaginations run wild over an innocent interaction. This is just nonsense.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, OOC Galore, Awkward Interactions, Singing Prompto, Bookworm Gladio, Iggy the Observer, Noct Sleeps Through Everything Including A Social Crisis, Reading Too Much into Nothing

** Slap on the Wrist  **

Something strange and unexpected has developed. 

The bespectacled brunet has a sixth sense for these things. Ignis can taste it in the air even though it doesn’t involve him in the slightest. It’s like sweat on the tip of his tongue that he tries to drown out with canned coffee. To no avail, really. A cloud of perspiration chokes the air around Prompto, and Noctis- the blond’s alleged best friend- is none the wiser to it, in fact the prince is dead to the world. This bizarre anxiety that’s more a blend of nervous tension and curiosity surrounds Gladiolus as well. And the one in the crossfire is _you_ : Oblivious and totally unaffected. 

Iggy huffs an inaudible laugh through his nose, eyes trained on the road even as he grasps for his coffee in the center console. Somehow, he already knows that this is going to be how every social interaction with you playing lead actor will end up: With one or more people confused and stressed, and you totally clueless even though _you’re_ the cause of it. 

Blue eyes flicker up and to the left to watch you from the Regalia’s rearview mirror. Prompto fidgets, picking at a stain on the knee of his pants from a skirmish with some dualhorns. Beside him, Ignis sits prim yet relaxed in the driver’s seat and in the backseat Noct snoozes peacefully on your left and Gladio reads silently on your right. But Prompto is far from at ease. A song buzzes like a bee in his brain, two voices harmonizing or trying to. It hasn’t been very long since you’ve been traveling with him and the others and yet... Why are you acting so familiar? 

Not that he minds! He’s relieved that you’re warming up to everyone, actually. Well... It’s a devious little creature that whispers in his ear: Self-doubt. Part of the freckled sharpshooter says that you only did what you did because you were _making fun of him_. And what did you do? Those cornflower blue eyes shoot up to glower at Gladiolus through the rearview mirror. Many a time the blond has wondered why Gladio is always picking on him. He doesn’t know that the Shield only does it because he finds the short dork endearing and doesn’t mean any harm, but sometimes Gladiolus Amicitia’s teases can be... In Prompto’s words: Assholish™. 

Yes, he’s trademarked the word specifically for the Shield. 

Gladio has a smart mouth and Prom can have thin skin. Yet it’s not as though Prompto Argentum _never_ has it coming to him. The guy is far from a saint- in fact, he’s more a daemon than anyone in the damn group. Pranks ranging from stealing toilet paper when someone is in the middle of doing their business, to pretending to be killed by an enemy, he does them all and is absolutely  shameless about it. Which makes his offense at Gladio’s teasing all the more mind-boggling to the brunet. It triggered the issue that burrows under the skin of both men. ‘Cause Prompto feels like he’s on weird ground with you now and so does Gladiolus. 

And _how_ do you factor into this weird dynamic of prank pulling and gentle gibing? Singing. Just... _singing_. 

Earlier in the day, Prompto set the stage for Gladiolus’ rather sharp tongue by stealing the older man’s book. Being quite quick on his feet, such a spry thing, Prom was able to run circles around the Shield for a solid _five minutes_ \- long enough for the joke to stop being funny. Long enough for Gladio to be thoroughly peeved. That frustration simmered in the back of the brunet’s mind all day long until after battle, when Prompto began singing a little victory song to himself. Then? It was the perfect time for him to strike and pierce that thin skin of Prompto’s. 

“Someone just step on a cat?” Gladio wondered, exchanging smirks with Noct for that joke before the prince swaggered on up to walk with Iggy. 

Heat rushed into Prom’s cheeks, skin flushed red and his neck feeling like it was on fire. Just as he awkwardly began to taper off his singing, another voice chimed in, picking up the tune without missing a beat. Gladio and Prompto both practically snapped their necks to turn to their magical companion who had been scavenging hair from one of the fallen dualhorns. Staff resting on your shoulder, you continued on with Prom’s victory song and the blond hastened to join you, an unsure grin on his face and cheeks more red than ever as you followed Noct. Gladiolus stared. 

It was simple enough. You _thought_ you did something of no note, of little import. An innocuous interaction from the new inductee, from the reserved arcane advisor. But it has sent ripples through the group in unexpected ways. Your stoic silence has only ever been broken up by dated pop culture references and factoids about whatever creatures, landmarks, or vegetation you all stumble across. Still adapting to the group, you haven’t yet revealed much else about your personality. Until now. 

You’re _chivalrous_. It’s a nice surprise, for a certainty, but it has Gladdy wondering if you think he’s a jerk since you found it necessary to step in. Sitting beside you, he steals glances at you as you allow Noct to rest his head on your shoulder when Iggy turns a corner. You’re a _joker_. It’s a bit of a relief for the resident prank gremlin, but it has Prompto wondering if you think he’s a big baby for getting so flustered over a joke... and then he feels like one for wondering that. Again, blue eyes dart up to watch you in the mirror. Beside Prom, an emerald gaze flits between you, the shutterbug, and the Shield. 

Iggy sips his Ebony. He isn’t touching this interpersonal crisis with a ten-foot pole. 

The drive to Hammerhead to turn in the bounty is uncharacteristically silent. Even though Noct is asleep, the silence isn’t borne from consideration. Everyone knows that a damn _bomb_ could go off and the prince would barely even flutter his little lashes. No, the drives are usually filled with genial chatter; with Prom talking a mile a minute and taking photos of everyone, Gladio ruffling the blond’s hair, you tapping Iggy on the shoulder and asking if you’re all on schedule, and Iggy engaging you in polite conversation with Gladdy and Prom occasionally interjecting. 

But you shot that all dead in the face by being _polite_. It’s kinda funny. In the future you can be rude as hell from seemingly nowhere and it won’t hobble the group’s dynamic; life will go on. The difference is, by that point they’ll _know_ you. Right now? Your intentions are uncharted territory. Prom and Gladdy were both being immature and they aren’t sure who got scolded by the dignified mage. 

Prom thinks you were joining Gladio in ribbing him. It’s the only logical explanation. _Why else_ would you sing his lame song? The answer is actually quite simple: You were empathetic to the blond’s plight. Having been on the receiving end of many an unkind teasing, you knew that look. The one Prompto wore was so familiar: Pure, unadulterated shame. The kind of shame that usually warns of tears, the kind that hints at a shaky self-esteem. You wore that same look until you learned not to wear a damn thing in the face of ridicule. 

And you don’t hold that cat comment against Gladiolus. You’ve no moral high ground in that regard. Hell, you’ve teased people before. You used to tease Drusa about how she took her tea (“Do you want some tea with your sugar?”) and you’d done _worse_ to others than make fun of their singing if they’d taken the first jab. And you know Prom ruffled Gladio’s feathers earlier in the day. You’d watched on, head cocked to the side and brow furrowed, and wondered how Prompto was so damn fast. So, you know it’s a _teasing_ dynamic and that Gladiolus wasn’t being an ass just to be an ass. 

Doubt can spread like an illness, though. 

And you make them both doubt themselves and your intentions. _Why_ did you have to pick a juvenile interaction to intrude upon? _Why_ did you have to pick a moment where neither one of them felt very good? It’s overthinking to the extreme coupled with apprehension. Boy, the power of your “mysterious” personality sure does pack a punch when someone isn’t expecting it. Or, in this case, when you’re still a stranger and the guys want to impress you and get on your good side. A bizarre concept to someone nobody tried to impress in the Spire. 

It’s a little sad that they’re feeling so unsure because _they want you to like them_. 

“Anyone want anything from the store?” You ask the second the bounty is collected. Pockets are fat with gil and you’ve noticed that the two rambunctious members of the group have gone oddly quiet. Prom keeps shooting you looks like a kicked puppy and Gladio has a permanent frown on his face. Both wonder if they should apologize for... For what? Being a jerk to Prom? Getting upset over Gladio’s joke? Being _themselves_? The most frustrating part is that they don’t know if you’re mad or if they’re reading too much into this. 

The latter. Gods, it’s _so_ the latter. Too bad they’re so caught up in hypotheticals that they’re blind to reality. They don't realize that your singing was a show of camaraderie and _not_ a verbal slap on the wrist to either of them. 

“I’ll uh... I’ll go with you,” Prom offers with his patented grin- the one that might accidentally blind someone if the sun hits him just right. 

Gladio glances between you two and says, “Yeah. Me, too.” 

Curious as to why you suddenly need an escort into a gas station convenience store, you give a noncommittal hum and head to the store with the two in tow while Iggy rouses Noct with promises of the caravan’s cozy bed and a warm meal. 

To say the silence between you three is deafening would be an understatement. It’s not just deafening. It’s _painful_. It feels like the silence after a gaffe with a million witnesses. It sets Prom’s teeth on edge and makes Gladio clench his fists. While they have their little internal torture sessions, you check the expiry date on potted meat and try to find a bag of corn chips that isn’t full of broken pieces. The lackadaisical way with which you move about the store’s small aisles makes both men think you’re pissed. The cold shoulder. That’s what it looks like. 

Projection is a bitch. 

For his part, Gladdy is wondering why the hell he’s feeling so chagrined. He's a grown-ass man, for crying out loud! Nobody scolds him over teasing Prom. _Everybody_ teases the pint-sized dork! But the way you’d seamlessly picked up the song where Prom left off made his stomach twist oddly. How you shot the blond an affable look, weighty staff resting casually on your shoulder, made the brunet feel... ill? It made him feel a bit like an ass. He always teases Prom! It’s their thing! Yet... The Shield scowls and crosses his arms, watching you marvel over mini bagels. When Gladio can’t take your silent judgment any longer, he sighs, “Listen, Prompto. About earlier-"

That head of fluffy blond hair whips around from where he’d been watching you feel up a bag of mini bagels to see if they’d gone stale. He hurries to beat Gladio to the punch, to hide his skin of crepe paper with an enthused, “That was a funny joke!” 

Amber eyes blink rapidly. “Yeah?” 

“Uh-huh...” Prompto glances at you. Why are you so disinterested? He’s got egg on his face ‘cause of you showing him what a baby he was being. Your point was that he needs to learn to take it if he wants to dish it out. Right? That if he's gonna prank Gladdy, he needs to be ready for the Shield's sharp tongue? So, why aren’t you paying attention? Oh. He gets it. You want him to really admit it, huh? With pink cheeks, Prom murmurs, “You got me good, big guy. Just forgot to say it in the moment. Right, (y/n)?” 

“Hm?” You kneel down, on the hunt for the perfect bag of mini blueberry bagels. Oh, whoa! They have _cinnamon ones_ , too? With both hands, you try and find two good bags of bagels. 

Gladio quirks an eyebrow when you bring one of the bags to your face and sniff. “Prom’s wonderin’ if you thought my joke earlier was funny.” 

“What joke?” 

“About my singing sounding like someone stepped on a cat,” Prom pouts, shoulders hunched as he crosses his arms. Dammit. He didn’t mean to pout. Now Gladiolus is giving him a pointed look behind your back. Freckled cheeks flush in shame. The brunet’s lips twitch and his expression softens into an apologetic one. Prompto smiles. 

“Oh, _that_. It was pretty funny,” you admit with a distracted smile, turning around in the aisle and checking that the lid on the jam you’re now interested in hasn’t been popped. “But for the record, Prompto, you have a _lovely_ singing voice. You should sing more often.” This is said with you shaking that jar of strawberry jam at him, two bags of mini bagels, a bag of corn chips, and a can of potted meat stuffed under your arms. 

Prompto Argentum is taken so far aback that you nearly make him time travel. Cornflower blue eyes are wide and starry. “A-Ah... Really?” When you nod, he blushes profusely, a shy grin on his face. “Heh. I’ll do it if you join me again.” 

“Of course,” you reply easily, shuffling on over to the cashier with your hefty load of groceries since you’ve silently refused each helping hand that’s been extended to you (Prom tried to grab the corn chips like five times before realizing you had a sort of Jenga set-up with everything under your arms wedged in so tight). As each item is placed on the counter, you ask, shooting the Shield a teasing look over your shoulder, “Do you sing, Gladiolus?” 

“Not usually,” he admits with a shrug, “but I can carry a tune.” 

An appreciative hum is his reward for his honesty. “Then I hope you join in. Nothing like some bonding over silly songs. I never got to do fun stuff like that in the college. I was an under- appreciated solo act in the library.” 

As you smile pleasantly at the cashier, a series of beeps filling the air with each food item that’s handed over, the men stare at your back. A few charming chuckles later and you’ve got a discount. Glances are exchanged. Amber meets sapphire and the two are wonderfully befuddled. Did Gladio just agree to play Lucian Idol with you and Prom? Did you just compliment Prom on his singing? Were you not even mad, considering you didn’t even recall Gladio’s damn joke? 

It can all be summarized with one question, the same way almost every interaction they’ll ever have with you can: What the _hell_ just happened? 


	5. Bros: Sticky Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first route re-upload! Formatting for bro-specific side stories (or ones for the poly route) will be formatted like this one "(Name of bro): (title)." Easy peasy, right? This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Can u please do some fluff with all the bros? It doesn't matter what kind I just really want some fluff after those last few chapters. If it isn't a big deal could you also post it here? I know you said you only post on the other sight but please?_
> 
> This is just nonsensical fluff centering around the reader obsessively playing a certain game.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, AU, An Obsessive Mage, OOC Galore, Noct Created a Monster, Let Gladio Pinch Your Cheeks, Your Magic is Making People Blush, That’s Not How the Game Works, But Whatever

** Sticky Fingers  **

Mechanical noises emanate from the far corner of the diner. There are tiny _pings!_ and the blaring of what’s supposed to be a victory tune followed by the rapid tapping of a sticky and worn-out plastic button whose spring might be about to finally give out under the incessant abuse of an attentive mage. That little plastic button is tacky to the touch, coating your finger with grease that isn’t your own but you’re too far gone in this latest obsession to care. 

Pockets are heavy with useless trinkets. Earrings, potions, and garish bracelets; the types of baubles that one expects to come tumbling out of cheap machines in brightly colored plastic capsules for the amusement of children. Noctis Lucis Caelum had _no idea_ that something he used to be so enamored with back in his school days would suck his arcane advisor right in. 

There are five mega phoenix feathers stuffed in your back pocket for later use. It’s dubbed your “useful” pocket. The goal is the celestriad. Well... the goal is _one more_ celestriad. You already have _three_ but that’s not good enough because you have _four_ friends. Thus, the conundrum of your existence in this diner smack dab in the middle of scenic nowhere: The concept of fairness and a dizzying rush of dopamine for each level that you clear on this machine keeps you glued to it despite your fatigue. 

The game has been restarted five times thanks to Gladiolus and Ignis. Iggy’s intrusion was purely accidental; he’d come by to offer to buy you something to eat and you, trying to be nothing but polite to the guy, looked away from the game for too long. But Gladio? That muscular bastard made his _own_ game out of you playing Justice Monsters Five. It’s why you’re here _now_ in the dead of night with only the coffee-drinking proprietor and the occasional hunter to keep you company. 

Leaned all over the machine like a giant, annoying cat, the Shield would raze you down with his fiery brown gaze, taking pleasure in the way you’d furrow your brow and nervously clear your throat as if it suddenly started itching you when he’d look your way. Fingers would falter, sweat would bead on your forehead, and then you’d finally cave and cut your eyes up to his only to wind up losing at a critical point. And Gladiolus? Why, he’d just offer you a big smile for your  frustration. 

Even now, you have to shake your head to rid yourself of the mental image of that equally dazzling and infuriating smile. From behind the counter, the proprietor watches you with mild concern. Bright neon lights only serve to enhance the bags under your eyes and the man is as much afraid of you dropping dead as he is of having to restock the machine with the amount of times you’re getting it to pay out. Hell, at the six-hour mark he offered to just open the damn machine and let you pick your prizes. 

The _gall_! 

And the gall of _you_ to refuse! Poor Prompto had nearly had a stroke when you’d refused. Ever since he started frequenting arcades with Noct, it’d always been a childish dream of his to get to see the inside of one of those game machines and an even bigger dream to be allowed to just pick and choose from the reward pile. Dreams that you’ve unwittingly crushed under the heel of your boot because _you_ prefer to put in the work for your reward. It’s ultimately far more satisfying for you that way. _Plus_... 

Well, the thing that has you so fixated on this game (aside from that lovely rush of dopamine that these types of games are designed to ignite) is that it appears to impress your friends. Your dedication? How you dominate the scoreboard? The subtle smile that quirked Iggy’s lips when he came by to offer you fries, green eyes alighting on your score, fed that beast within you. Then he said, “That’s impressive,” and how could you stop after that? 

Prompto made it even _worse_ ; throwing his arms around your shoulders from behind, getting on his toes so he could rest his chin atop your head to watch your progress. Despite the fact that he’d nearly thrown you off (to be honest, he almost had you sprawled across the damn machine with his sudden embrace), you found that you quite liked having the blond sharpshooter in awe of your gaming prowess. 

Noct and Gladio? Well, those two are another story. Gladiolus spent far too much time staring you down to really pay attention to your score. He was, however, visibly impressed with the amount of capsules you found yourself in possession of. Of course he mostly teased you about it (“You tryna build yourself a fort out of all these things?”) but you could see that proud glint in his eye for his overachieving magical friend. 

For the Crown Prince... Noct’s a little fearful of the monster he created. It’d just started with a casual question: “Hey, (y/n), have you ever played this game before?” He’d gestured vaguely to the machine next to a plain old pinball machine upon entering the diner. It was on the far left, something easily missed in your exhaustion after a long hunt for a cactuar. Now you’re glued to the damn thing. Little does the prince know that you mostly play for _his_ benefit. 

“You can win prizes if you get far enough along in the game,” Noct had informed you, blue eyes scanning your impassive face for any sign of interest. You remained rather nonplussed, mostly hungry and just wanting to leave and take a shower. “I’ve never gotten the highest prize before, though, but the other prizes are pretty cool.” 

“Yeah,” Prom had sidled up to his two best friends to pipe in, “but this game is a _huge_ time waster. Noct and I used to play this all the time back in Insomnia.” 

Your gaze immediately zeroed in on the machine. “Is that right?” 

“Yep!”  


And here you are. 

After everyone had fallen asleep in the caravan, you got up to get back to the grind. You just absolutely have to reach the highest level not just once but _four times over_. Initially, you just wanted to get the celestriad for Noctis because he’d confessed to you that he’d never won it before. But after you won (coffee stains now decorate the proprietor’s white shirt from how you’d startled the crap out of him with a triumphant, “YES!”) you got to thinking that maybe Prompto might want one, too... and then maybe Ignis... and what if Gladiolus felt left out? 

The heavy stink of grease and the sharp tang of cleaner that’s meant to smell like some vague “citrus” permeates your sweater. Pale blue light filters through the window behind you, chasing away the darkness and making the bright red neon of the open sign beside you less harsh on your eyes. But it also makes it a bit more difficult for you to see the screen now that there’s a glare. A twitch of your stiff wrist and a toxic cloud obscures the window, darkening your corner of the diner once more. 

_Click! Click! Ping!_

Eyes scan the screen, you swap out monsters for a boss battle, and advance to another level. 

When Ignis sidles into the diner for a cup of coffee before the others have woken up, he’s surprised to find the manager stock-still and looking terrified. A glance to the side and Ignis sees the cause of the man’s discomfort: That damn noxious cloud. Brow creased, the prince’s retainer eyes you up and down from your slouched posture to the way you keep shifting your weight from foot to foot. 

“(y/n)? How long have you been here?” 

“Ah, your friend’s been here since around midnight,” the proprietor answers for you. 

Ignis sighs, low and tortured. “(y/n), _honestly_?” 

“Hm?” You don’t even turn your head, eyes cutting to your tall pal for a split second before returning to the game. “Oh. Good morning, Scientia.” 

Torn for a moment, Iggy decides to go and get coffee _before_ lecturing his fellow advisor on their wretched sleeping habits. While he’s busy pouring his coffee as close to the brim of his to-go cup as he can get, the others burst into the diner, ready for breakfast. All three come screeching to a halt at the sight of you hunched over the game like a gremlin. Glances are exchanged. Pointed looks are shot Noct’s way for introducing you to the damn game. 

Gone are the appreciative and amused looks for your gaming enthusiasm. Now everyone just looks irritated and concerned, wondering why you would forego sleep for an arcade game that spits out useless trinkets. And before things can get awkward with stilted but well-intentioned lectures, the machine gives you another reward and you sigh in relieved triumph, finally able to pry yourself away from that hours-long addiction. Fingers are stiff; you warm them up so you can do away with the miasma with a snap. 

The manager is _so_ relieved.  


“Were you out here all night?” Prompto asks, all agog at your commitment. Damn. He would’ve  killed to hang out with you back in high school. 

Noct isn’t as impressed. Pale fingers run through his dark hair, tugging at the ends in frustration. With an annoyed look, the prince sighs, “I never shoulda showed you this game. You get way too intense.” 

“I wanted to win this for you,” you admit, digging through your pocket to give Noct the celestriad, a self-deprecating smile on your lips at his comment. 

The moment you hand it to him, Noctis stiffens, eyeing the gemstones a moment until he finally realizes what you’re giving him. His cheeks go pink, the prince pawing nervously at his bangs to obscure his eyes. It’s an effort for him not to grin all cheesily as he takes the trinket from you. “Thanks, (y/n). You didn’t have to do that.” 

“But I wanted to,” you insist, a frown on your face, misconstruing his abashment for continued frustration. 

Though his stomach twists with jealousy, Prompto elbows Noct in the ribs and teases, “Aw! You’re _blushing_ , dude!” A celestriad gets handed off to the shutterbug and those teases turn into shocked stammering and embarrassed fidgeting. Cheeks as red as cherries and blue eyes sparkling, Prom titters, “O-Oh. Wow! No one’s ever won anything for me before.” 

His comment earns him a blank stare from his brunet best friend. Did the many lame plushies won from claw machines after school count for nothing? Later, Prompto will apologize to a huffy Noct for that little lapse in memory, but he’ll argue that your gift counts for more because: “Sorry, dude, but (y/n)’s _really cute_.” 

“It’s nothing,” you reply, brushing off the younger guys’ comments. Your fellow advisors watch you continue to pat down your pockets with raised eyebrows. Bangles and bracelets and earrings are handed off to anyone who’ll take them until you finally find Iggy’s and Gladio’s celestriads. “Here. I didn’t want you guys to feel left out, and when I realized I could win more than one I had to try." 

“Damn, Magey. That’s quite a haul,” compliments Gladio. His irritation is long gone and is replaced with amusement. Six, you’re such a cute overachiever. It takes every ounce of professionalism within him not to pinch your cheeks in front of everybody. 

Also donning his own flattered blush, Iggy adds, “These mega phoenixes will certainly come in handy, too. The potions as well.” 

“Yeah, I thought so,” you try to reply all casually though you’re preening from the compliments, “considering how Noct seems to enjoy setting us all on fire,” you joke, earning yourself a pout from the prince. 

“Whoa. You got so many prizes! That’s _so cool_!” Croons Prompto who is still freaking out over the sheer volume of _stuff_ that you’ve amassed and hidden in your cardigan. He practically drools over all the things you placed on the machine when you were digging through your pockets. But then that amazement slips just a tad from his face, replaced with a thoughtful expression. “But, y’know, I’ve heard the prizes aren’t the same for all the machines.” 

Beside you, Noctis makes an aggressive slashing motion across his neck with his hand, desperately trying to signal to his best friend to shut up. 

“Hm?” The blond has your full attention now. Noct’s signal gets more and more aggressive, eyes made all wide and threatening to a blond who still doesn’t see him, so focused on the mage. 

“I heard the game in Altissia gives out moogle charms and a wind-up Lord Vexxos.” 

Now you’re buzzing with excitement. “What?” 

“Where’s yours?” Wonders Gladio, effectively putting an end to your growing plan to have everyone rush off to Altissia before you’re all actually ready. “I mean, we all gotta...” he squints  down at the thing you handed him, “celestriad?” 

Shoulders rise and fall tiredly. Leaning against the machine, you confess, “I didn’t win one for myself. I only played the game to win one each for you guys.” 

That confession? Delivered with a drowsy little frown and the hugging of your sweater to your tired body? It’s a collective group blush that you win this time around. Soon you find yourself bustled into a booth with food and coffee as the guys each take turns throughout the morning, trying to progress far enough in Justice Monsters Five so that they can win the highest prize for their dear, overachieving mage. 


	6. 03. Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline? What timeline? In which I tell time to go to hell to accommodate bounty hunting and questing. I don’t know about you, but it took me like 50 hours of gameplay to get to chapter 6. Bit of "new friend" fluff, too.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, feat. Prompto’s Dorkiness  & Noct as Therapy-Friend, For a Nerd You Have Appeal, Let’s Call it “Mage Magnetism” From Here on Out, You’re a Troll, Noct is a Brat, Everyone Else = Innocent Bystanders

**03. Friends**

Despite your initial concern about sleeping in a tent with four dudes after having had the luxury of your own room, the night is a blur. Fatigue hits you like the Regalia- hard and completely out of nowhere. Somewhere in-between you complimenting Ignis on the rice balls and Gladio mentioning training, you nod off. You don’t know how you get there, but one second you’re picking sticky rice off of your fingers and the next you have Prompto smacking you awake with the back of his hand. At first you’re  _pissed_. 

He hits you so hard that it actually makes a very audible  _smack!_  of skin on skin. It’s a jarring way to wake up, violently pulling you from a pleasant dream about dancing moogles to confront a blossoming pain across your forehead. But then anger takes a backseat to confusion, your eyes darting around the dim confines of the room. A cacophony of soft, even breaths and loud, eardrum rattling snores fills the dark green tent.

Propped up on your elbows now, you look around the tent and find that you’re at the entrance which should make your escape painless. Across from you, Gladio, the source of the obscene snoring, is flat on his back with his arms tucked to his sides like a corpse. Beside him is Ignis with his back to the Shield (you think you see neon ear plugs in his ears). Next to you is Prompto the Sleep Slapper who you assume smacked you when he rolled over. Last but not least, on the blond’s other side, is Noct looking like a small, dark croissant- totally dead to the world.

You’re the only one awake… so it must be about 4:30 in the morning. Though you’re loath to admit it, having the same schedule for 20 years has made you a creature of habit. Dawn hasn't even broken when you exit the tent. The dark sky is slowly turning a soft pink and the stars are still glittering. The cool air begins to warm. For a while you just stand there in the middle of camp. There's nothing for you to study. There's nothing for you to read. This is unusual. This is  _uncomfortable_. 

“ _Why do I have to be busy to be happy?”_ You wonder miserably, a soft sigh leaving you when you rub the back of your neck in frustration. Truthfully you feel like you’re being lazy, like you’re shirking some duty that you no longer even have. This makes anxiety stir in your chest before you opt to poke your head back into the tent to grab your backpack, which you assume Gladio took out of the Regalia’s trunk for you. You unzip the bag and take out the book your mother gave you before leaving the backpack in front of the tent.

And like that, you feel a million times better. It’s an immense relief to have something productive to do. Heartbeat evens out, nerves mend, and you get back into that scholastic groove that brings you much comfort. You little nerd. You even discard your smelly tunic and put on the only other thing you have: a plain white short-sleeved button-up. After you straighten the soft stark-white linen under your unbuttoned sweater, you groan. Honestly you hadn’t expected that you’d be  _camping_. If you had, well, surely you would’ve brought reasonable attire and more than just your toothbrush.

However, there’s one little blessing here: the stupid shirt is “stain-proof.” A gift from your mother who always looked like she wanted to scream when she’d find you with berry stains and chocolate down your front. Birds chirp and you quirk your brow in annoyance, frustrated at your lack of earbuds and coming to the realization that maybe you  _should_  go back to the dreaded Spire to pick up a few things you’d left behind in your hasty departure… 

Ugh.  _No_.

You crack open the heavy tome and determinedly start to pour over it, desperate not to think about all of the material possessions you left behind. Sat comfortably in a folding chair, you bring one leg up so you can prop up the book and read without hunching over too much. You’re alone for a solid fifteen minutes before out comes Ignis from the tent followed by Gladio and the sunrise- in that exact order, like it was all choreographed. You glance up and murmur, “Good morning.” In the back of your head you note that Gladiolus looks quite ruffled with bits of his dark brown hair sticking up in places while Ignis’ outlandish ‘do is picture perfect.

“Mornin’ (y/n),” Gladio responds gruffly, voice gravelly from his earthquake-producing snores. You watch a moment when he stretches, as if prepping for exercise. Maybe you should’ve started training a little rather than reading…? But, Six, you’re so sore that you were barely even able to sit on the chair without your legs shaking from the effort to  _bend at the knee_. Yeah. No exercise for you. Light stretching? That’s a soft “maybe” and you’re already comfortable,  _so_...

“Good morning,” Ignis greets politely before puttering about the camp to get breakfast ready. Though you’d like to help, the way you flubbed your totally innocuous interaction with the guy yesterday keeps you in your seat. There’ll be no more repeats of  _that_  disaster.

The tome works as a wonderful social buffer, the men eyeing you but never interrupting since you look so engrossed in your reading. Gladio goes off for an early-morning jog- joking that if he isn’t back within half an hour you and Iggy should assume he found trouble- and the camp starts to smell like toast and coffee. Once you’re sure that Ignis isn’t going to try and engage you, you actually start looking at what you’ve been pretending to read. Eyes scan the book and you thumb through the entirety of the tome, casually glancing at headers and sketches of summoning circles. 

Parts of the text at the very end are in your mother’s arcing hand that’s so uniform it looks like it was printed by a machine, but other parts you can recognize as your grandfather’s slanted calligraphy. And the rest? Well, it’s a hodgepodge of chicken-scratch and handwriting so elegant it somehow puts your mother’s to shame. Once you’ve glanced at the book from cover to cover, you finally start to read in earnest. The first twenty pages make up an introduction, addressing you personally as an Iovita, and you suddenly realize what you’re holding with a start. It’s almost embarrassing how long it takes you to figure out that this is your family’s grimoire.

It’s not really your fault, though. You were never allowed to even  _glance_  in the book’s direction and your mother always kept it locked in an old footlocker with some sort of ward on it. You’d heard a rumor once that a maid who was cleaning your mother’s office accidentally bumped the footlocker and got an unfortunate zap. You also heard another version of that rumor where the maid’s heart stopped because of how strong the zap was… 

“Bullshit,” you’d said to the student who dared repeat that to you. And now that you have the super secret book in your hands?  _Ooh_ , you read with an almost perverse zeal.

You’re halfway through an ancestor’s account of the Iovitas’ persecution by the Spire (old news to you, so you resort to skimming) when you feel warm breath ghost across the back of your neck. Snapping the book shut, you slowly turn your head to look at Prompto from the corner of your eye. The blond is leaning on the back of your chair, chin resting on his folded arms, blue eyes bright and observant. “Can I help you?” You drawl.

A piece of toast is hovered in front of your nose as the blond chirps, “Time to eat!”

Not a single person back at the Spire embodied the traditional version of a “morning person.” Like you, they all awoke before sunrise and set off to study, teach, or research. But not a damn one wore a smile. The halls were a sea of sleep-crusted eyes, stooped backs, and grumbled words. Drusa was passable as a morning person as she found it within herself to look human and speak in her regular tone of voice rather than an octave lower. But you don’t think she could ever be on  _Prompto’s_  level.

Inhaling deeply, you exhale loudly like you’re being tortured, “Okay,  _fine_.”

Prom pulls his chair close to yours just as Ignis asks if you’d like coffee. You gladly accept, brain already throbbing from caffeine withdrawal, and take the mug from the brunet carefully so as not to touch his fingers. Content, you recline in your chair and slowly eat the toast which has some sort of marmalade on it. A glance about the camp shows you that Gladio is already back but Noct still hasn’t left the tent.

“ _Late sleeper? Weird for royalty,”_  you muse.

You’re so busy absent-mindedly watching Gladio and Ignis make conversation that you completely ignore the fact that Prompto  _clearly_  wants to talk to you, considering he went out of his way to move his chair across camp to sit next to you. He reminds you of his presence with a bashful, “Sorry about before.”

Eyes snap to the blond, taking note that he looks rather sheepish with a crooked smile and a blush that reaches his ears. A curious smile on your lips, you ask, “Sorry about what?”

“For not knowing who you were. That was kinda disrespectful. I mean,” he nods his head toward your chest, “I saw the patch on your sweater but I thought you were just a student or a graduate.”

“I  _am_  a grad.” Breath huffs out of your nose and you mindlessly run your fingers over the upside-down triangle patch. “But no. It wasn’t disrespectful so there’s no need to apologize. We’re good.”

The blond grins. “Yeah? All right, cool.” You think he’s going to go back to eating in silence until you realize he’s already finished his toast. Plus, he’s still watching you with those shockingly blue eyes. Perplexed, you take a tentative sip of your coffee (a bit too strong for your taste but it knocks your headache clear out of the park) and wait for Prompto to continue. He does so almost immediately. “In my defense… there aren’t  _any_  pictures of you  _anywhere_  and I tried to imagine you as a younger version of the Arch-Ma- I mean, your mom, but Noct told me you looked nothing like her.” He chuckles, “He was right about that.”

“Are you still apologizing?”

“Huh? Oh, no.”

“Good.” You pause. “How did Noctis know what I looked like if there aren’t any pictures of me anywhere?”

“He said he saw you once when he was a kid. You were in the throne room with your mom, talking to His Majesty about where you’d be trained.” The sharpshooter looks longingly at the rest of your toast and you hand it over. He doesn’t even care that you’ve already taken a healthy bite out of it, taking the toast with gusto and nearly cramming it into his face. “Thanks! Uh, well, sorry if I’m fanboying a bit. I remember learning about the Arch-Mages in school and also a bit about you.”

“ _Fanboying? The hell?”_

A grimace tugs at your lips and you get a weird little squirmy feeling in your gut over the fact that the kids in Insomnia had to  _learn about you_. “Yikes. Sorry about that. My sympathies for those awful lectures.”

“What? No! It was  _so_  cool!” Prompto insists, all starry-eyed again like when you first told him who you were. “I mean, the Arch-Mages before the Iovitas took over the Spire were pretty okay but your mom did such cool stuff! And I’m sure you will, too!”

“I thought you said she was mean,” you point out, gently swirling your cup of coffee and watching the blond from beneath your eyelashes. You’re dodging his comment about your future pretty damn hard but you play it off splendidly. He goes as red as a cherry.

“I didn’t mean it like  _that_! She’s just-” Prom seems to fumble for an explanation, almost choking on his toast when you call him out like that, “Er… What I  _meant_  was that she’s really serious all the time. And she can be rude… Like a few years back when a reporter asked her about the Wall and her progress on her research to help His Majesty maintain it, she kinda snapped at the poor guy.” He just gets redder and redder as you continue to stare.

Shoulders bob up in a lazy shrug and you mercifully look away. “Yeah, I know. She’s been like that for a while now. Wasn’t always that way. Besides,” you stare at the dark caramel color of the coffee as it ripples, rapidly cooling already, “that’s a sore spot for her. I know she researched magic transfusion for decades and for it to not even have a payoff…?” You sigh and take a healthy gulp of caffeine, “She couldn’t help His Majesty and it’s no secret that the Wall is taking a toll on his health. They were good friends before he picked her to become his Arch-Mage, so her failure meant more to her than just failing the Crown.”

Blue eyes are downcast. “Oh...”

“ _And now I’ve made it awkward. Shit.”_

How the hell were you supposed to know that your mother’s and King Regis’ friendship wasn’t public knowledge? The media pretty much kept the king in the spotlight even before he started his reign, so it would’ve been near impossible to keep his rubbing elbows with one of the infamous Iovitas out of the headlines. But I digress. The conversation has taken a weird turn and you realize that you can’t find any way to salvage it. As casually as you can manage, you shoot Prompto a smile and excuse yourself to check on Noct, putting your coffee cup down by your chair- an unspoken promise that you’ll be back.

It's cooler in the tent than it is outside and you wonder how Noct can even sleep in this  _late_. Then again… it probably isn’t even six yet and you’re not so sheltered that you don’t know the hours that “normal” people wake up. You’d had many a conversation with the cooks where they’d awe over how “dedicated” all of the mages were to get up so early. You didn’t want to burst their bubble and admit that anxiety tends to keep people awake,  _not_  dedication.

In the cool darkness, you hear the prince’s soft breathing. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust before you can see Noct curled up like a pill-bug. Squatting down between him and Prompto’s unzipped sleeping bag, you balance on the balls of your feet. "Hey, Noctis," you murmur, gently shaking the prince's shoulder. Cerulean eyes crack open after you shake him for what feels like hours, and he blinks slowly at you like a sleepy cat from his blanket burrito.

"(y/n)..."

"Good morning."

"Morning? Ugh," he groans before pulling his blanket up over his eyes, "I  _need sleep_."

He sounds so dramatically miserable that you have to stifle a snort. "Pardon my saying but what you  _need_  is to get up. It's-" you check your phone, "5:58…" And just like that, you feel like a curmudgeonly oldster scolding him for daring to “sleep in.”

"Why do you even  _have_  a phone?" Noct’s voice is muffled and you barely even hear him.

"Huh?"

The prince lowers his blankets so only his cat-like eyes are visible. "My dad told me how the Spire runs- how you were raised. So it's kinda weird that they'd give you a phone."

You quirk a brow. "Gods, what do you people think my life was like? I was  _supervised_ , I didn't grow up under a rock, Noctis. Besides, it's more practical for people to use phones in the Spire to shoot texts and call each other rather than search all fifteen floors and the grounds to tell someone the Arch-Mage wants them to change a word on a manuscript. Sure we'd all be fit, but we'd be  _perpetually pissed_."

He snorts, almond eyes narrowing with a hidden smile. "True. Why'd you come wake me up, anyway? Usually Specs is the one who does this. Not that I'm complaining. His morning bedside manner leaves a lot to be desire-" the prince interrupts himself with a yawn.

"Ah... he's busy," you explain, covering your ulterior motive so poorly that you’re honestly not surprised the sleepy prince catches on.

Noct appraises you a moment before asking, still in his little cocoon, "What's up?"

"What do you mean?" You counter.

You’ve seen that look before. Drusa and your mother wore it often when you dared lie to them. Noct wears the flat expression of complete and total displeasure. Now you know your lying ways won’t get over on him. Good thing you learn this  _now_  rather than when you try and steal something from his plate. The prince sits up on one elbow and points out, "I know I don't know you all that well, but you're kinda easy to read. Something's bothering you." When you don’t hasten to explain yourself, he sighs, “Better you say something  _now_  than let it fester.”

Not needing to be coaxed further, you blurt, "Why's Prompto being so nice to me?"

"You're bothered about him  _being nice_?"

The offense in his tone for his friend has you quickly explaining, "I'm not exactly used to people my age seeing me as, well, an equal."

His expression softens. "Yeah. I know what you mean."

“But,” oh, no, the word vomit is starting, “it’s not just that. I’m not used to people being  _nice_  to me.”

“What?” Noct sits up fully, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

You remind yourself that this isn’t some therapy session. You aren’t venting to Drusa about hearing students talking shit about you or magisters ostracizing you… You’re talking to the Crown Prince and this  _talk_  is starting to go on too long. You feel small in the prince's presence, feel foolish for complaining to him about his friend talking to you like you’re a person. This mounting stress makes you close yourself off with a vague, "Sorry, I’m just not used to this."

“Prom is just hyped because of what he learned in school and what he heard from me,” Noct insists. “You Iovitas are who the people of Lucis immediately think of when they hear the word 'mage.' The second my dad told us we’d be picking you up, Prompto wouldn't stop talking about you."

Heat sears your cheeks. "Oh."

"I didn't mean to sound, well,  _mean_ or anything. It's just that Prompto really admires your family. Hell, even my dad does and he doesn't admire people for no reason. And he really liked you when you two met."

That comment makes you squint. "We didn't even  _talk_."

Noct fixes you with a bland smile. "He went on and on about how brave you were for a little kid and not a day went by where I didn’t hear about your exceptional progress over in the Spire."

" _Six_ ," you groan, unable to look the prince in the eye.

Noct chuckles, "His words, not mine."

Seeing the prince in this light, as someone who goes out of his way to comfort others, relaxes you. In truth, though you’d researched his friends, the prince was a bit of an unknown factor. He’s quiet and stays out of the limelight, so interviews weren’t readily available for you to analyze. There’s only so much you can glean from a bare-bones portfolio, which also accounts for you being totally unprepared for Gladio’s ease, Ignis’ omniscience, and Prompto’s enthusiasm.

When you realize the two of you have been sitting in silence for a while now, you awkwardly chuckle, "Thanks for the early morning pep-talk, Noctis. It means a lot.” The prince gives you his usual half-smile which you return in earnest. “Ignis is making breakfast so you'd better hurry out. See? I wasn’t  _totally_  lying about him being busy." As you move to stand, your sweater snags on the zipper of Prompto's sleeping bag. The prince watches on in silence as you fight with the blue bag to free yourself. By the time you leave the tent, you swear you're on fire and you’ve effectively ruined what would’ve been a cool exit.

“You wake Noct?” Prompto asks the second you close the tent flaps behind you.

You’re startled by the immediate question, still reeling from making a fool of yourself with that valiant battle against the sleeping bag’s zipper. After you clear your throat with a dignified cough, you reply, “Yes. And- And you should  _really_  learn to put away your sleeping bag when you’re not using it.” 

The blond looks totally nonplussed by that reprimand.

Emotionally exhausted, you throw yourself back down on your chair and pick up your mug. First you appraise the coffee to make sure no bugs drowned themselves in it before taking a grateful sip… which you almost spit right back out. The coffee is ice cold now and you frown before carefully warming the mug between your palms, embers dancing up before disappearing with little pops. Prompto looks like he might explode. “You okay?” You ask, struggling not to laugh.

It’s at this moment that you realize you’ve been able to talk to the sharpshooter for a while now, disengage conversation and then re-engage like nothing, and you’re  _not_  tripping over your own tongue. There's something about Prompto that makes him different. He possesses a disarming quality. It might be that he has no title to hold over you- you're basically equals. But he acts lower than you somehow; like his confidence is a fragile thing in your hands as you two speak, something that’s so different from the haughty mages you’re used to. That makes you slightly uneasy. You make a note not to be so hard on him in the future.

“You’re so awesome!” Prom breathes and you feel heat rush into your cheeks. You wonder if you thought too soon about that nonsense of him being easy to be around.

“Stop it,” you huff. “That’s- That’s hardly the case. It’s simple.” You’re about to tell him that you can teach him such simple magic but remember that  _no_ , you can’t. Unless he’s some long-lost Iovita, he’ll be hard pressed to even learn how to make build-a-spells like a proper Spire mage. And then you realize you don’t even have any magic flasks to teach him  _that_.

Prompto says just that. “Simple for you, maybe. But literally  _only for you_.”

You roll your eyes. “I thought Noct was skilled with magic?”

“Yeah, but, that’s elemancy. He’d probably make the mug explode if he tried doing what you just did.” Blue eyes dance up to something behind you and the blond smirks.

“You and (y/n) gossiping, Prompto?” Drawls Noct from behind you, sounding mildly annoyed and definitely still groggy. Before you know it, something is dropped on your head.

“What the-?” Fingers grip into soft leather and you rip the thing off of your head, cradling your warm coffee to your chest to protect your precious caffeine. You whip your head around to scowl at Noct. “What’s this about?”

“Put it on,” Noct says casually, like he didn’t just put your Crownsguard fatigue jacket on your head instead of handing it to you like a normal person. And he totally doesn’t answer your question.

“I’ll repeat:  _W_ _hat’s th_ _is about_ _?_ ” You grumble, placing your coffee on the ground next to the grimoire so you can properly hold the jacket. Damn are you  _never_  going to be able to finish your coffee?

When he sees your bemused expression, Noct explains with a tired sigh, “That sweater of yours is gonna get ruined out here. This jacket is leather. It’s not like leather is gonna ‘snag.’ Besides, there’s no point in you walking around like you’re still in college.”

You want to argue that your baggy sweater makes your sleight of hand much easier by providing you with a place to hide stolen sweets and bottles of wine, but think better of it. Especially after he was witness to you getting owned by a damn sleeping bag because of how snag-able your sweater is. “Fair enough.” The unease of wearing something with so much meaning attached to it is evident in how stiffly you move. The drab sweater is discarded on the chair and you stand before throwing on the jacket. The leather is thin enough to not feel suffocating but thick enough to where you’re certain it won’t tear easily. It hits you right above your knee and has both inner and outer pockets.

To your surprise, there’s a skull and crossbones on the right breast where your usual Spire patch would be. It’s stitched in black so you have to really squint to actually see it, but the point is…  _you_  know it’s there. It seems to be a running theme in everyone’s attire, too. Though, you can’t look at Ignis’ belt buckle  _too_  long or people might start to get the wrong idea.

“ _What? Are we all part of a damn gang?”_

Just as you dust yourself off and adjust the jacket on your frame, you hear a whistle. Head swivels around to find the source- Gladio- grinning at you. The prince’s bodyguard smirks when he’s sure you’re looking  _right_ _at him_. “Lookin’ good, killer,” Gladio drawls, grin widening when your eyes nearly pop out.

“I feel like a stereotypical mage,” you scoff. “And did you actually dig through my backpack to get this jacket, Noct? What the hell?”

“My dad said it’s fire retardant,” Noct points out as he watches you, raven hair mostly obscuring his steely blue eyes. Again, he dodges your other more pertinent question. But you’re easily distracted by his comment.

“Did he think I’d set myself on fire?”

“He probably thought Noct might,” Prompto snickers, earning himself an unamused glare from the prince.

“I think it’s high time we set out for Hammerhead,” Ignis announces, already packing up and putting an early end to the inevitable squabbling. “We should collect (y/n)’s bounty and see if their vehicle is ready.”

“ _My_  bounty?” You sputter.

“Yeah, you  _did_  do all the killing. S’only fair,” Noct shrugs before making a half-assed effort to help the others close up shop. Really, he just folds up one of the chairs before meandering over to the Regalia after putting in all that  _hard work_.

“Oh, well I’ll be sure to pay for the Regalia’s repairs,” you assure the other three. After you stoop over to collect your coffee and family grimoire, you right yourself to find the tactician appraising you closely. Was it something you said? Oh, gods, what is it now?

“There’s no need for that. We can pay off the Regalia’s repairs in no time,” Ignis tuts, quickly making his way over to you and taking your half-empty cup. Green eyes drop down to look at the caramel liquid before he pulls a concerned expression. “Was the coffee not to your liking, (y/n)?”

“It was good!” You reassure him and explain, “I just got caught up talking with Prompto so the coffee got neglected.”

“Ah. Of course. Prompto  _has_  been looking forward to your company, after all.” Ignis shoots Prompto a teasing look. “His admiration is a hard thing to ignore.”

“H-Hey!” Prompto cries indignantly and refuses to meet your eye when you turn to look at him. Though you’re a little hellion at heart (when you aren’t tripping over your own tongue) you decide to let Prompto off the hook and not tease him. The camping gear is loaded into the trunk and you’re off to Hammerhead. Takka hands over a cool 2,000 gil and a couple of enchanted items that you highly doubt you’ll wear. You pawn off the trinkets on the others who take them with enthusiasm. You  _almost_  comment that you can provide better enchantments but don't want to be a braggart. 

And now…  _Altissia!_ A city you’ve only ever dreamed about... And it looks like you’re going to have to keep dreaming, because unfortunately for you, Cindy Aurum, the mechanic who is personally seeing to Choco Jr.’s recovery, tells you that the scooter needs more repairs. She looks so apologetic that being irritated doesn’t even cross your mind. However, you’re definitely irritated when the hunting and the camping continues for  _two more days_  before you start to wonder when the hell you’re going to Altissia. Or if you’re even going at all.

* * *

When you dreamed of joining Noctis’ ranks, you admit that you thought you would probably only see the guy’s face on rare occasions. You envisioned that your relationship with him would be one of pure obligation borne from generations of Iovitas making a trek to visit the King of Lucis, kissing the king’s ring, and then disappearing back into the ether or wherever the hell they hid. You figured that you would almost always see him from behind a stack of papers on your desk or just on television. Seriously, you didn’t think you would be watching him fight with his advisor over the smallest amount of vegetables he can get away with eating in a day to still be considered “healthy” by the bespectacled man’s standards. 

“Just this once, eat the tomato on your sandwich,” Ignis practically pleads, looking like he’s  _this close_  to grabbing the prince’s sandwich and shoving it down his throat. “You don’t even have to eat the lettuce if you eat the tomato.”

“ _Oh, he’s really desperate if he’s bargaining now,”_  you think, trying not to laugh.

“Stop babying him,” Gladio gripes, “you know he won’t listen. You two do this  _all the time_.”

“Tomatoes are gross,” Noct fires back. “And lettuce is like eating nothing, except it tastes worse.”

It’s pretty early in the afternoon and the diner smells of butter and toasted bread. You ordered off-menu and had Takka whip you up an egg sandwich which he topped with some sautéed tomatoes and mushrooms. Ignis copied your order after he saw how delicious the sandwich looked then promptly jotted down his own little spin on the meal. The other three ordered a greasy looking meat sandwich with fries. And though Noct gobbles up the meat like a little fiend, he turns his nose up at the lettuce and tomato as if he’s five years old.

Takka watches on as the three bicker in the booth while you wait on your and Prompto’s shakes to finish mixing. Being a fast eater (since you always had to scarf your food down like a high-suction vacuum to make time for sneaky streaming sessions), you finished your meal in the middle of the guys going at each other’s throats over the prince’s lacking diet and Prompto finished soon after since he opted out of the fight. You offered to buy the blond a shake, if only to get out of the crossfire, and he accepted happily.

“Here you go, one strawberry shake and one chocolate,” Takka announces proudly, though his eyes are still trained on the bizarre battle over veggies.

Gil is pressed down on the counter, along with something a little extra for the poor man’s ears. “Thanks, Takka.” You smile and slide off of the stool before making your way back over to the battlefield, shakes in hand. Gladio stands up and allows you to take your place between him and Prom. 

After you settle back in, you hand Prom his shake which he takes with an enthused, “Thanks, (y/n)! You’re the best!” and you make the immediate mistake of making eye-contact with the prince.

A fry is jabbed accusingly in your direction. “ _(y/n)_  left half a tomato on  _their_  plate.”

Everyone goes silent. Is he really trying to throw you under the metaphorical bus over half a damn tomato? And is everyone actually looking at you like Noct just announced that you went out and massacred a village? Your eyebrow twitches and you tauntingly bring your straw up to your lips before saying, “Then be a man and eat half a tomato like I did,” and you suck loudly on the straw, making a show of how much you’re enjoying your damn shake.

Beside you, you think Gladio chokes on his food. Ignis slowly turns his verdant eyes onto the prince and Prompto is shaking- oh, wait, he’s trying his damn hardest not to start laughing at his best friend who’s looking at you like you just backhanded him with the tomato in question. Noct just stares at you from beneath his bangs. But does he take the bait? Hell no. The little shit picks up his tomato and lettuce with his fork, reaches over, and dumps it into your shake. Aaaaaand everyone goes silent again.

Not one to back down from such an immature challenge, you jut your chin out and sneer. With your eyes trained on the prince all the while, you mix the tomato and lettuce in the shake before picking the soggy vegetables up with your straw and popping them into your mouth. You chew a couple of times and then swallow before showing Noct your tongue.

“Ugh, (y/n)! Gross!” Noct cringes, scrunching up his nose, but you can tell from the glint in his eyes that he’s grateful to have the dreaded vegetables gone.

“(y/n), must you?” Ignis scolds and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Ever the disappointed guardian.

To say that they aren’t all used to your theatrics at this point would be a gross underestimation of how often you screw with them. Ignis swears that you and Noct are a horrible influence on each other in particular. Noct’s generally blasé demeanor meshes strangely with your reclusiveness and dark humor. You two play off of each other like the world’s most deadpan comedic duo most days and your fanbase is extremely niche- that is to say, Prompto is the only one amused by your antics while you get eye rolls and sighs from Iggy and Gladio.

“I thought you were supposed to be some mature stiff shirt,” Gladio had grumbled when you iced the campground at Prom’s urging so he and Noct could unsuccessfully skate around only for Gladio to come back from a jog and nearly crack his head open.

You’d swear Noctis grew up locked away in the damn Spire, too, with how easy it is for him to get sidetracked by quests and personal errands for the others like he’s never been outside before (Ignis once mentioned how he was running low on Ebony and you all spent a day driving around trying to find a store with some in stock). His limited attention span is so bad that it’s been a while since you’ve all made any sort of progress on your trip to Altissia. Then again, you aren’t privy to any of the deadlines and you don’t even know when the wedding date  _is_.

“Did it actually taste good?” Prompto queries, eyebrows knitted together as he glances from your shake to you in concern, like he thinks you’ll drop dead any moment now.

“Yeah, sure,” you fib and hide a gag behind your hand, trying hard not to think of how _wrong_  the acidity of the tomato tasted with the sweetness of the shake. The lettuce was easy to ignore. The tomato? Not so much.

“Liar,” Gladio snorts. “Just like Iggy should stop coddling Noct,  _you_  should stop actin’ like his garbage disposal.”

True. The big guy certainly has a point. This might be a new habit that you should already break. Whenever Noct doesn’t want to eat something, he just casually slides it onto your plate because he knows  _you_  will. And unlike Prompto, you don’t fear the cold stares from Ignis or Gladio’s bellyaching. You just go right on eating like you don’t even notice the extra vegetables.

“You all have known Noctis for so long. You’re invaluable to him,” you say, voice sober. The men stop what they’re doing to look at you, expressions concerned and attentive. You stir the straw in the thick shake, eyes trained on the yellow tomato seed that hovers at the top in light red flesh. “You’re his confidants, his protectors, and his closest friends. And me? I like to think I serve an important role to him as well.” Eyes look up to lock onto Noct’s. He’s so focused on you, eyebrows furrowed. He looks concerned. Gods, you play the part so well. You take a breath and announce, “I eat his vegetables!”

Pain blossoms between your shoulder blades as Gladio smacks you for your snark. You’re sent lunging forward and you nearly take your eye out on the straw. Palms smack onto the cool surface of the table so you don’t end up kissing it. “Idiot,” Gladio chuckles. “I thought you were bein’ serious for once.”

“I think the herniated disk you just gave me is pretty serious.”

“Trust me, I smacked you with the blessing of everyone at this table.”

“What?” You can’t help but laugh when you look around to see Ignis pursing his lips at you and Noct looking away, shoulders shaking. Prompto has his face in his hands. Prodding the blond, you ask, “You okay?”

“You got me,” he moans, voice muffled. “Dammit! I was  _so_  ready for some heart-to-heart talk!”

“Pfft! You should know me better than that by now,” you simper, ever the group’s little troll.

You’ve been with the guys for a few days now. And it’s a sad testament to Spire life that you’ve quickly become more comfortable with these four men than any of the students who have ever walked the Spire’s halls. Then again, to these guys your surname doesn’t evoke fear and envy in equal measure. To them, you’re more than your family name. And when you have to live with others in close quarters, some barriers tend to get knocked down whether you want them to or not. Walking in on someone changing, having to carry toilet paper out to someone who seems to never be able to gauge how much they need ( _Prompto_ ), and sleeping in the same space all inevitably leads to closer ties. 

Probably because you all have so much dirt on each other at this point... You can probably blackmail Prompto over his chocobo undies and Noct for half the things he’s said in his sleep. And they can probably have you in their pocket, too. With how often you call your mother at night to check in and with how many pictures you send to her and Drusa to show off where you are, everyone thinks you’re just a  _bit_  childish. Hell, Gladio has taken to calling you a tourist every time you beg Ignis to stop the Regalia so you can go and collect an herb that you recognize.

You joke that the relationship bordering on friendship is built off of mutually assured destruction. Even though Ignis could probably ruin you with a single word. It’s just that, in truth, you’re all in this sort of “in-between” state of being acquaintances and friends. All that’s needed is some extra push on your part to prove that you’re in it for the long haul. Or so you think. You aren’t aware that someone’s already put you on a pedestal.

“But I  _do_  argue that my role is pretty important,” you add after reading the room and seeing that they aren’t actually  _too_  irritated with your shenanigans. “I’m practically a national treasure.”

“Yes, the kingdom is indebted to you,” Mr. Scientia the Sass Master snarks right back. “When Noct becomes king, I’m sure he will have a statue of your likeness erected in the Crown City.”

“Or maybe here at Hammerhead,” Gladio jests. “They can be holding a tomato over their head and have a basket of beans and lettuce hanging off of their arm.”

Noct snorts into his soda, “Don’t give me any ideas.”

“So, when are we headed out to Altissia?” You ask, sucking down your shake to get the taste of milky tomato off of your palate. It’s to no avail. Noct ruined your shake. Well,  _you_  ruined it by mixing the veggies so thoroughly, but you still blame him.

“We can’t rightly go too far with your moped still being worked on,” Ignis points out, dabbing the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Though, if you insist, we can continue moving forward with our plans if you have no issue leaving the scooter behind.”

“Yeah, it’ll be a long drive to Galdin with little leg room, but I don’t mind if you don’t,” Gladio assures, giving you a friendly bump with his elbow that nearly has you spilling your tomato shake all over the table.

You’re about to protest when Noct interrupts, looking only mildly apologetic, “Oh, I thought I told you. Cindy called this morning when we were out at camp. Your moped is ready to go, (y/n).”

Irritation has you giving the prince a flat look. “No, you didn’t. But thanks for withholding that information until now.”

“Hey, (y/n). Mind givin’ me a ride on your moped some time?”

You look over at Prompto’s excited face and glance down at his half-empty shake. A sneaky smirk crawls its way onto your lips. “Sure,” you drawl, “if you trade shakes with me.”

“Huh? Oh,  _yeah!_  Deal!”

You’re still grinning as you happily slurp down the rest of Prompto’s shake and he yells and gags dramatically the second your abomination of tomato and sugar-milk touches his tongue. A new battle commences as Prompto asks Noct how he could  _do_  something so  _awful_  to you before proceeding to try and force Noct to drink the wretched sludge, Gladio starting up a chant of “Do it! Do it!” to try and peer-pressure the prince into taking a tiny sip. You swear Takka just wants you hooligans to leave and never come back.


	7. Bros: Turnabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a harmless prank exposes everyone but the intended target.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Some Suggestive Nonsense, Intense Tense Flippage, Mage Magnetism, Just Fluff, Another Pointless One-Shot, OOC Galore, Gladiolus Would Never, One Waterlogged Prompto Comin' Up, Cindy to the Rescue, The Mildest of Jealousy

** Turnabout  **

They have to break the newbie in. They just _have to_. 

At least, that’s what Gladiolus is trying to convince Iggy and Noct of, and he certainly has his work cut out for him. Prompto, on the other hand? Prompto was cake. All the blond had to hear was “(y/n)” and “car wash” in the same sentence and he was down. Such a jokester at heart, Prompto Argentum would’ve been game for a harmless prank on you even if it didn’t feed into one of his fantasies. Not that he has any fantasies about you! He just thinks you’re really cool and attractive and might look _very nice_ while washing a car. 

That’s all! That’s all... 

I mean, you’ve been on this quest with them for a week now so you’re hardly still a “newbie,” but Gladio is looking to amp up the camaraderie with some goofing around. The Shield wants you to loosen up and stop acting like Noct walks on water, ‘cause you’re still living in those halcyon days where you don’t quite realize that your liege is not only human like you, but an _epically_ dorky and awkward human. What better way to show you that than with some lighthearted fun? 

Yet the brunet finds himself on the wrong end of one of Iggy’s side-eyes. 

Ignis isn’t quite sure what his fellow royal advisor is playing at, but he knows it isn’t as wholesome as the Shield claims it is. The tactician believes it might have something to do with them all realizing the scope of your power. Such a talented mage, you’ve carried the group through a few hard-fought battles already. Though you can’t quite take a hit, falling easily in battle, you’re an invaluable ally and formidable spell caster all the same. So, Iggy is thinking this prank might actually be a bit mean-spirited. 

_Jealousy_. He thinks Gladiolus is beginning to feel envious of your might. 

Honestly, if Iggy said that to his face, Gladdy would laugh. Sure, he might’ve been envious of your magical abilities _if_ you weren’t such a classic glass cannon, but everything between you and him is copacetic. _However_ , Gladiolus does have to admit that he indeed doesn’t have the purest of intentions. He’s noticed the lingering interest of the younger men in the group. Like they have laser-guided vision, Noctis and Prompto have you in their sights. 

This is a prank, yeah, but it’s on a much grander scale than anyone knows. 

The brunet bodyguard just doesn’t realize that when he uses the term “younger men,” Ignis Scientia gets lumped in with the others. ‘Cause Iggy is a bit more subtle than most people when it comes to having a crush. Furtive glances and innocent requests for your aid in the kitchen, his interest isn’t so easy to sniff out. The tactician comes across as friendly, _not_ like he’s pining after the enigmatic mage. In comparison, Noct and Prompto practically walk around with an “I Heart (y/n)” sandwich board on. 

So, it’s not _totally_ Gladiolus’ fault that he ends up outing Ignis today as well. 

But why a prank? It’s pettiness and unresolved feelings. Since you got comfortable with the Shield, you’ve not wasted a single moment to tell him that it’s never, _ever_ hot enough outside to take one’s shirt off. “Oh, gods. Don’t be _that_ guy,” you’d whined when the Shield whipped his shirt off in the deserts of Leide for the first time in your presence. You even got Noct and Prom to join in on the teasing. Now, when he takes off his shirt, Prom offers to break out the body oil and Noct says he smells bacon. 

Gladiolus might actually hate you, you damn uppity mage with your ability to rally the others against him. 

“Everyone’s washed the Regalia once. It’s like a rite of passage,” Gladiolus “The Liar” Amicitia says to you with a straight face, a little blond gremlin by his side agreeing with an adamant nodding of his fluffy head. 

The vehicle in question is currently mud-splattered and has a menagerie of dead insects smeared all over it. Gladio already got Cindy to leave you a bucket of water and a sponge. Said mechanic merely raised her eyebrows and nodded her head when Gladiolus insisted that _you_ said you wanted to spruce the Regalia up yourself. Cindy Aurum is all-seeing. She’s noticed the Shield’s growing fondness of the magnetic mage and if he wants to be in denial about _why_ he wants you washing a car, that’s on him. 

“Just make sure (y/n) doesn’t wear themselves out too much,” Cindy had insisted, hands on her hips and not really up for this teasing of the poor mage but also _kinda_ curious about what will happen. She’s positive it’ll end in a lot of egg on Gladiolus’ face and she’s definitely on board for _that_. “The Regalia’s a right mess.” 

You echo her sentiment, gaze trained on the car as you all sit around the table outside of the camper. While you’re otherwise preoccupied, Noct gives his devilish friends a bland look. Yeah, they’ve all washed the Regalia before, but it’s hardly a “rite of passage” and definitely not anything that you need to worry yourself over. And what the heck kinda prank is this, anyway? An excuse for free labor? A way to make Cindy happy ‘cause she won’t have to be the one cleaning the filthy car? 

If it’s the latter, Noct would think _Prompto_ would be the one to do it so he’d get in the mechanic’s good graces. If anything, Cindy’ll like _you_ better after this, not Prom. Gosh, this joke is just going right over his damn head. The prince doesn’t connect the dots of you, car washing, and your nerdy white button-up shirt. Noctis isn’t naïve. In this instance, however, he doesn’t quite get the joke. All he sees is the burly Shield trying to boss around the hoity-toity mage whom he’s always teased for being “fragile.” 

To Noct, the joke is poking fun at your typical mage flaws. It doesn’t seem to be a “good humored” type of prank which is why he isn’t on board. To Noct, his burgeoning crush on his remarkably charming arcane advisor is so subtle that it couldn’t possibly have factored into  Gladiolus’ creation of such a mindless prank. The prince doesn’t realize how easy he is to read in this regard. Goodness, his pals have _always_ known when he’s developed crushes. Yet Noct thinks he’s slick. 

He’s pink cheeks and soft smiles, stealthy glances from beneath his bangs and awkward snorting laughter. Everything you do is infinitely funny to Noct. Your awful puns, the irritated faces you pull when the Shield tells you to take off your sweater when it’s hot out, and even the way you randomly spout off factoids on the local flora and fauna makes him chuckle. It’s a wonder Prompto hasn’t caught on. And everyone’s caught on to _his_ crush. The guy couldn’t be more obvious. 

“(y/n), you’re _so_ cool!” Has been exclaimed about a billion times in the span of a week. If there _was_ an “I Heart (y/n)” sandwich board, the blond might actually wear it with pride. 

And now, suddenly Ignis is connecting some dots of his own with regard to this “harmless” prank. He sees it now: The slight upturn of Gladio’s mouth and the gleam in his eyes. Ignis has to dig deep within himself to refrain from rolling his eyes so hard that he sends himself backwards in time. Because Iggy? He has a talent of seeing through people. Legend has it that he actually has a sixth sense and it’s _specifically_ for being able to read his friend’s minds when they’re on some bullshit. 

And Gladio? He’s on some major bullshit. 

“You don’t have to clean the car,” Noct sighs before Ignis can open his mouth to object to this tomfoolery. 

Head cocks curiously and you query, “Have _you_ cleaned the car?”  


The prince watches you a moment, takes in the subtle set of your jaw and the way you’ve  straightened your back, before he replies, “Yeah.” 

“Then so shall I,” you respond primly, standing abruptly and shrugging off that oversized Spire sweater of yours. What’s good for your prince is good for you. And if Gladiolus says this is a rite of passage (though you have your doubts 'cause you know Gladio and Prom are gremlins), then you’ll just have to prove yourself. Judging by the unimpressed look on Ignis’ face, you’re guessing that you’ll have to work extra hard to earn his approval. It’s a good thing you’ve seen Cindy do this a million times. You’re a fast learner. Or that’s what you tell yourself. 

Gods, it couldn’t be easier to bait you. Gods, it's extraordinarily difficult to _keep_ you baited, as Gladiolus will soon learn. 

The way you shed that sweater makes a few hearts skip a beat. That’s a little funny. For the mage who seems physically attached to the oversized lavender cardigan, it’s odd to see you without it. Noctis suddenly feels like he didn’t even know you had arms. You have an _actual body_ and not just some formless lavender thing that you pull snacks and money out of. The guys act as if you’ve never taken your sweater off in your entire life when in reality they’re looking at you through “crush lenses" now. 

“Make sure you lift the windshield wipers before you clean the windshield!” Prompto calls after you, voice a teasing lilt, and he immediately shrinks under the icy glare of one Ignis Scientia. 

The evening air is mild and smells strongly of fried food and coffee from Takka’s. Harsh white-blue light shines down from the pit stop when the sun gets low enough in the sky. You wipe your hands on your thighs for some reason before picking the sponge up off of the ground and dunking it in the sudsy water. The sponge is squeezed of excess water and you set to work carefully and  firmly wiping down the Regalia’s sleek black exterior. There are _way_ too many bugs in the water all too soon. 

Behind you, Ignis clears his throat and attempts to strike up a conversation with the others, mentioning tomorrow’s schedule. An effort in futility. He could be reading off stock reports right now and he somehow wouldn’t be less interesting to the others. Gazes keep drifting off in your direction. Someone’s supposed to laugh. That’s the point of a joke, right? And for a _prank_ , there’s supposed to be some “gotcha!” moment where the person getting pranked realizes that they’ve been duped. 

None of that happens. No laughter, no grand reveal. Just shifty glances. 

It’s not like they’ve never seen anyone clean a car before. Hell, Cindy does it all the time and nobody makes a fuss. Sure, Prompto might blush and steal glances at her but that’s about it. And right now? He’s transfixed and you aren’t even doing anything special. In fact, you might actually be cussing out a particularly tough mark in the paint by the way your lips curl and your eyebrows knit together. Noctis is smiling at you and he doesn’t even realize it. 

Ignis clears his throat once more, adamantly refusing to look in your direction, and he finally manages to capture everyone’s attention. “As I was saying, the quarry tomorrow-” 

Six, can you finish up already? You needn’t do more than a few cursory swipes, it’s not like you’re trying to win an award or eat off of the damn car. Yet there you go, cleaning off the Regalia in earnest. At some point you’re supposed to get water on your shirt. Right? The white fabric is supposed to be made sheer and then Gladio can revel in the way everyone gets all flustered at the sight of you in such a state? Gladio can feast on embarrassment like it’s five-star cuisine? 

Gladiolus shoots you furtive glances as he tries to keep up with Iggy’s chatter, tossing in a few affirmative hums of his own along with some suggestions for where to stop off next since he always makes it a habit to chat up the locals for interesting bits of information. You lean across the hood of the car and Gladio swears your ass is a magnet. Did you... Did you enchant your butt to make it impossible to look away from? Is that a stupid thing to wonder? He feels like it might be a stupid thing to wonder. 

At some point, Cindy comes around with a squeegee for you and you thank her with a wide smile. “Need anything to drink, hon?” The blonde mechanic asks, arms crossed and brow furrowed. You’ve a thin sheen of sweat on your forehead and your shirt is starting to stick to you. Only about half of your work is done. Oh, this is too cruel a joke to play on such a sweet mage, she thinks, not knowing you better. Olive eyes shoot Gladiolus a pointed look and the Shield determinedly fixes his gaze on Ignis. 

You wipe your forehead with the back of your arm. As the sun sets, the air grows cooler and begins to reinvigorate you. “I’m fine, thanks.” At Cindy’s concerned look, you try to reassure her with a winning smirk and insist, “ _Really_ , I am. It’s mostly my fault that we went off-road as often as we did, anyway. I’m taking full advantage of being able to explore these breathtaking lands, so the least I can do is spruce the Regalia up a bit; a price I’m more than willing to pay.” 

Such an unwittingly charming mage. 

“Well, you’re lookin’ a little warm so I was just checkin’ on ya,” Cindy explains herself. Why does she feel the need to explain herself? The mechanic shakes her head at herself and finally relinquishes the squeegee. 

“Oh, yeah. I kinda am,” you admit, taking the squeegee and tossing it in the air before attempting  to coolly catch it by the handle. It falls to the ground and you pretend that you didn’t see that happen. So does Cindy. Casual as can be, you gesture toward your shirt and ask, “Do you mind?” 

The mechanic stares at you for a second as you fidget under the fluorescent lights before asking, “Do I mind...? I'm sorry, what are you askin'?” 

“If you mind if I take off my shirt. I always wear an undershirt and am kinda regretting that choice right now,” you chuckle, a self-deprecating smile on your face. “I just didn’t want to suddenly start unbuttoning my shirt and have you think I’m some sort of pervert.” 

“Oh!” Cindy laughs, feeling a bit flustered. She tugs on the bill of her cap. “Go right on ahead. I was just headin’ back to the garage, anyway. You wanna meet up at Takka’s when you’re done?” 

“Sure thing! It shouldn’t take me longer than,” you quickly glance over your shoulder at the half-washed car, “ten minutes, max. I’ll meet you there." 

“Okay.” Cindy bobs her head, already walking backwards away from you. “See ya then!” 

This whole exchange, sans audio, has been observed closely by your comrades. Noct has long since stopped smiling since Cindy started getting all chatty with you. Even Ignis stopped attempting to get everyone’s eyes off of you to watch this befuddling event unfold. 

“Did you just set (y/n) up with _Cindy_?” Prompto hisses accusingly in Gladio’s ear, totally glossing over his own hand in this predicament and prompting the taller man to bat him away, a scowl on his face.  Then you turn back around to the Regalia and confuse them even more. At first, there’s wonderment as you bring your hands to your collar and begin working a button. Then there’s some strange and dizzying mix of panic and intrigue when they all realize that, yep, you’re taking your damn shirt off.  “Wh-Wh-What’s (y/n) doing?!” Prompto squeaks, wide-eyed and scandalized yet still not bothering to look away. Imagine that. 

Suddenly, Gladio stands with a seemingly permanent scowl on his face and marches over to you. When he’s right in front of you, he snaps, “Hey. I thought you said it’s never hot enough to take your shirt off? Hypocrite Ma-” 

Wicked eyes silence him with a single look. In this moment, Gladiolus Amicitia believes that this might be a finishing move of yours. Your shirt is opened to reveal _another_ shirt and you fold your button-up over your arm. At Gladio’s nonplussed expression, you drawl, “You were saying?” When the Shield says nothing, you toss your sweaty shirt at him and snort, “Yeah. Thought so. Now, let me work, Amicitia. I’m just about to do a better job than you’ve _ever_ done in your life.” 

Not registering that your shirt is quite damp with sweat, Gladio folds it under his arm and snorts, “Psh. Yeah, right.” Oh, no. You’ve challenged him. It’s practically in his genetic code that he can’t back down from your challenges. 

“Yeah, _right_ ,” you taunt back. “Enjoy the show.” 

Then you pivot on your heel and go back to cleaning off the car. Six, why does your undershirt have to be a ribbed tank? Why can’t it have sleeves? Why can’t you act like a normal person and be just the tiniest bit bothered by the fact that you’re in less clothes than any of them have ever seen you in? Red cheeks seem to be contagious among your friends, embarrassment catching on like a virus. The only one who adamantly refuses to allow himself to look ruffled is Gladiolus Amicitia. 

Nostrils flare at your gall. Baiting you is pointless if you don’t even realize you’ve been had. 

“What?” He scoffs. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t really know you after a week. It’s _only_ been a week, after all. How is Gladio to know that you’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing? You’re not nearly as oblivious as any of them thinks. Sure, you may be awkward and a strong case can be made to say you’re socially inept, but you’re aware enough of others and their ulterior motives to not be made a fool of. 

You’re not easy prey. The Spire unwittingly made sure of that. 

You’re shrewd and far more calculating than your friends know. And right now? You know the guys are screwing with you. Gold star for you because that’s literally the only thing you guess correctly. ‘Cause you think this is some sort of “hazing” ritual like they do in teen movies and while you were initially fine with playing along, you’re already tired and looking to pawn this work off on someone else, namely the mastermind behind this lame act. 

Looking over your shoulder, you slowly repeat yourself, “Enjoy the _show_.”  


Now? Now his cheeks can flush red. It’s an inescapable heat that scorches right down to the  marrow in his bones. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means I know you only told me to do this so you could watch me,” you simper, exaggerating the smooth, arcing motions you make with the sponge. “My, my, Amicitia. I didn’t think you were so cruel to me because you _liked_ me.” 

“Cruel?” 

Listen, if he _has_ to address one thing out of the few outrageous claims you’ve made right now instead of standing here in the parking lot like a gobsmacked fool, it has to be _that_. The other things that you’ve just said? Well, in your devilish and manipulative teasing, you don’t realize that you just hit a bullseye. It’s a critical hit and Gladiolus refuses to acknowledge the fact that he’s a dead man. 

“The endless taunts and the teasing? The snide remarks about me being a fragile mage,” you supply, eager to point out his mistreatment of you, the MVP. Well, _you_ call yourself the MVP. Even when you’ve been knocked out by a single flan, you’re still the MVP. 

Gladio can almost forget your lack of clothes at this turnabout in _his_ prank. You think he’s mean? He just thought all of that was banter! The Shield frowns at your back. If he takes a moment for some brief introspection, he must admit that he can be a bit ill-mannered. It’s something Iggy has brought to his attention a few times with regard to his treatment of Noctis. He supposes he’s obliviously stepped on your toes a few times... 

Holy crap. Is he _really_ doing some soul searching in the middle of a prank while you’re moving your hips far more than is necessary when washing a car? 

“Didn’t mean to offend ya, Magey,” Gladio murmurs, brow puckered. Well, he’s feeling quite put out. So much for having fun. “Sorry. I was just foolin’ around.” 

All you do is hum your acknowledgement of his apology, not bothering to even turn around. That gives Gladio pause. He thinks you’re actually upset with him. Not knowing what else to do, the Shield picks up the squeegee and begins working on cleaning the windshield. The two of you work in silence. After a moment, Prompto begins to feel left out (and like somehow cleaning a car together will make you and Gladio bond), so he shrugs off his vest and comes to join in, Noct and Iggy following close behind. 

At first, you just wanted to sucker Gladio into doing all of the work for you by guilting him. But now that the others are here? Friendly conversation starts up and it doesn’t take long for Gladiolus to realize you weren’t ever even mad at him. Amber eyes cast you a sidelong glance. Though he wants to be irritated with you for trying to play him, he can’t help but smile when your face lights up when you hear that you’re all headed for Alstor Slough and its famous marshes tomorrow. 

Soon enough, Prompto is flicking water at Noct ‘cause he just can’t help himself. The prince frowns and complains about how dirty the water is, which prompts Iggy to go and get a hose from Cid’s garage after dumping out the bug carcasses. Noct picks up a few of the remaining bugs and chases Prompto around the parking lot with them as revenge, the air filling with the sounds of laughter and Prom’s cries for help that will never come. Desperate, the blond hides behind you, clinging to you for dear life. 

“Stop! Stop!” Prompto begs, dodging Noct and running circles around you. The prince has half a beetle in his hand. The _horror_. “I’m sorry!” 

“C’mon, Noct. He said he’s sorry,” you laugh, an evil gleam in your eye. “But if you _really_ want revenge, I can freeze his feet to the ground and you can shove that beetle down his shirt.” 

“No!” 

Six, you all swear Prompto just ruptured everyone’s eardrums with that screech. It’s his only defense against his cruel friends. 

“Now, now,” Iggy tuts once he can hear again, “let’s leave Prompto alone. There’ll be no stuffing of bugs down anyone’s shirt tonight.” 

Watery blue eyes blink at the taller man who is currently doing _actual_ work and not horsing around. He’s got the car gleaming. Prompto sniffs, so pathetic, “Thank you, Ig-” Everyone is stunned at the sight of Ignis squeezing the nozzle’s trigger, the hose pointed right at Prompto’s face, practically drowning the guy for a solid two seconds. Payback’s a bitch when you flick dirty water at Ignis Scientia’s best friend. 

The first one to recover from their shock and start laughing is you and _gods_ you don’t think you can stop. Hunched over, tears in your eyes and hands braced on your thighs, you don’t think you can stop even with Prom whining at you, shaking you with his soaking hands and calling you mean. He’s only trying to get _you_ to stop because you’re laughing so damn loud and are now at the point where no sound is coming out of you, you’re just shaking like mad and almost on the ground. 

Noct and Gladio already got done laughing at Prom, but now they’re laughing at _you_ because you look so ridiculous, all hunched over with a soaked Prompto draped pathetically over you. Six, Prom’s cheeks are so damn red. You can feel the heat of his blush against your back. Now, even the waterlogged shutterbug is struggling to keep in his chuckles despite his near-death experience. It’s not _his_ fault that your laughter is contagious. 

Iggy looks on, a grin on his face as he leans against the Regalia. It pleases him to have reduced you to tears with slapstick comedy. Yes, he’ll apologize to Prompto later. But for now, he basks in your silent laughter. For a few days, Prom won’t be able to live this down. Whenever anyone goes to call on Ignis, they’ll call him “Ig-” followed by a series of startled gurgling and dramatically flailing limbs. Prom’s freckled cheeks will turn red each time and he’ll laugh sarcastically before throwing something at the wannabe comedian. 

Despite the weaponized bugs and Prompto’s near drowning, the Regalia is looking more beautiful  than she’s ever looked before. All of the detailing work was mostly Ignis’ effort, but it was a group effort that got her shining. You should all be proud of your work, and you are... for a short time. Well, _you_ stay proud while your buddies take the time to really look at each other. There’s something strange going on. Noct saw the way Specs was looking at you. Prom noticed Gladio’s glances. 

It’s _now_ that feelings are exposed to all but the one they’re actually directed toward. 

“That was fun,” you admit, voice a little worse for wear, checking the time on your phone and snapping your pals out of the horror of their sudden realization. Good thing, too, because Prompto was about to make a joke about this latest development and the others wouldn’t be able to handle the shame of that. “Oh! What do you know? Just under ten minutes.” 

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Ignis asks, trying not to sound too curious and trying to scrub the way Prompto had been grabbing at you from his memory. In this new context, now knowing that Prompto Argentum is _genuinely_ infatuated with (y/n) Iovita, he regrets not letting that jet of water last for a little bit longer. 

“Yes, actually. I’m meeting Cindy in the diner,” you inform your friends, yanking them all briefly back in time when they’d been hit with a collective feeling of dread at the sight of you and Cindy chatting. “We’re having dinner together. I’ll see you guys later. Okay?” 

There are a few mumbles of agreement as you put your clothes back on and head off to the diner with a casual wave. Brows are furrowed, frowns etched onto faces. How did this happen? How did you end up having dinner alone with Cindy Aurum on what could possibly be called a date? What could have led to you being in a situation where you’d be presented with the opportunity to be invited to dinner? Gladiolus has never been glared at so harshly by all of his friends before. 

The Shield clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “So, about that prank-” 

Iggy interrupts, expression unamused, “Stop while you’re ahead, Gladio.”  


“Yeah, _way to go_ , Gladio,” Prom chimes in. 

“You’re just as much to blame, Prompto,” sighs Noct, heading back to the caravan after shooting you one last fleeting look. 


	8. Ignis: The Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A side story for Ignis. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong-ish Language, Just Fluffy Nonsense, A Pointless One-Shot, OOC Galore, You’re an Unintentional Troll, Ignis is Confused, So is Everyone Else, All About Those Misunderstandings, Asparagus Water, Pre-Relationship

**The Game**

Everyone can cook but _nobody_ is as much of a control freak as Ignis when it comes to cooking. Also, nobody is as good as him, either.

Therefore, it stands to reason that he’s the designated chef on this quest. Noctis prefers Iggy’s cooking, after all, since the bespectacled brunet never fails to tickle the prince’s fancy. If it were up to Prompto, there’d be more greens thrown into the mix because he enjoys the feeling of having a well-rounded diet. If it were up to Gladiolus, there’d be more greens thrown into the mix to spite Noct. 

And now you’re the thing being thrown into the mix. 

Before you, Ignis typically catered to Noct’s palate more than the other guys’. It wasn’t because he liked them any less- Actually, wait. No, that’s true. Noctis Lucis Caelum is Ignis Scientia’s best friend in the whole world. He’s like a brother to him. And cooking is Iggy’s way of giving Noct just the briefest of reprieves from his duty. Food is a comfort afforded to Noct by a man who just wants him to be happy. 

So, with that reasoning, it makes sense that most nights dinner is made according to Noct’s tastes. Such a spoiled prince in that regard. 

But you’re here now. The erudite arcane advisor who lives and breathes strange research and eats just about anything. There’s no pandering to be done to your palate because your palate is so broad. A lack of greens isn’t met with a strained smile and when there _are_ vegetables, you solve the problem of Noct’s dissatisfaction by eating them off of his plate and ignoring Gladio’s bellyaching about it. 

You’re like Iggy’s failsafe. At first, he thinks that’s a good thing. Little does he know that it’s about to cause a problem. 

For him, as the Food Guy™, pleasure is sometimes sought out in trying to find what level of absolute fuckery he can get away with in his cooking. His most “innovative” recipes are byproducts of that line of questioning. That devilish streak of his enjoys the reactions that he can get out of his friends, be it stars in one’s eyes at a towering sandwich or Prom behaving like tofu has the ability to kill him and everyone he loves. 

It’s your growing crush on the brunet that throws a wrench in the system. The game is paused and Iggy is denied satisfaction. And that? That won’t do. 

At first he thinks you’re screwing with him. The guys already know of Iggy’s flair for the dramatic, but you don’t know this game. Deep-fried peppers covered in spicy cheese sauce and garnished with dried red pepper flakes are devoured like they’re nothing more than marshmallows. With sweat on your brow and Noct guzzling both yours and his cups of water, you offer to eat Noct’s and Prom’s portions. 

Not wanting to be outdone by the mage, Gladio attempts to eat his entire portion of hellfire cheese poppers only to be rewarded with _immediate_ gastrointestinal distress for his damn competitiveness. Only then does Ignis reveal the real meal: Burgers. A back-up meal is always made for when he plays his more outlandish pranks. So full, you lament the fact that you ate three portions. 

“I’m so sorry, Ignis. I wish I could eat another bite,” you sigh, swimming in sweat as Prompto and Noct look on in awe. You’ve a _waterfall_ of sweat pouring off of you and you’re _dying_ \- quite possibly, _literally dying_. Insides feel like molten lava and you fear you’re about to share Gladio’s fate. Gods save the toilet paper. But you _must_ be strong and endure this pain. 

Ignis stares at you blankly before cracking a smile. He detects sarcasm in your tone where there is none. The game is on. “It’s no problem, Iovita.” 

Except it _is_ , and he’s oh-so determined to _get you_ the next time. 

A breakfast shake made of bacon, eggs, milk, and toast blended all together is served and chugged while Noct excuses himself. A burger with a fried cookie as the patty is devoured with gusto as Gladio comments that the flavor is “interesting” combined with the tomato and mustard. Each is served beautifully, like legitimate dishes, and the guys laugh, or cringe, or gag, and enjoy the joke. 

You eat the damn joke. 

An experiment in bizarre flavors and an exercise in testing his friends’ limits, these dishes are _supposed_ to evoke laughter or outrageous reactions. Instead, you pretend that you’re somewhere else (Sometimes some _one_ else. You needed to pretend you were astral projecting to drink that friggin' breakfast shake without hurling.) and eat them. Then you wipe your mouth, smile charmingly, and thank the chef. 

And Iggy can't decipher exactly what you’re trying to convey with such a dazzling smile after having eaten something so wretched or strange. 

As time goes by, Iggy starts to get the sneaking suspicion that you’re actually trying to _insult_ him. You thank him as passionately and sincerely for his joke dishes as you do the ones that he puts lots of time and effort into. Dishes like creamy fowl sauté and fluffy chiffon cake are lauded in the same way as just a slice of tomato on a plate and a macaroni and cheese cupcake. What exactly are you trying to get at? 

Short answer: Him. You’re trying to get at _him_. 

You’re trying to impress him. Is that so wrong? You're trying to make him feel nice and supported because you’re _completely_ taken with the bespectacled brunet. He’s sophisticated and compassionate and... His hijinks are totally lost on you. So now the two of you are in this weird place where he’s screwing around with recipes for a reaction and you’re singing his praises. Which, normally, he’d _love_. But that’s not what a joke dish is for, okay?! 

Your gushing, simpering praise of food that you're _supposed_ to find disgusting is like when someone actually tries to fight the "killer clown" or the "ghost" in a jump-scare prank instead of running away. 

When Ignis breaks, the final straw being you calling his asparagus water “avant-garde,” he calls you over to see what _your_ game is. You’ve been driving him mad for days, your praise all he can think of. Over and over he replays the way your eyes shine and how you smile so brightly at him with your empty plate. He knows that this nonsense needs to come to an end because Noct is beginning to suggest dining out more frequently, the poor guy. 

Apparently, the prince can’t handle his best friend constantly upping the ante with these prank dishes. 

“What's up? You've been acting kinda strange these past few days, Iggy. I hope you aren't getting sick,” you fuss, rolling up the sleeves of your sweater to help Ignis clean, as you always do. A sponge is dunked into soapy water and you set to work cleaning dishes while he readies a pot to soak overnight. Green eyes cast you a sideways glance. How _dare_ you eat that water-logged asparagus after sipping that water like you had a glass of the world’s finest wine in hand? 

You’re unbreakable. 

In the warm light of the campfire, he watches you work, and he doesn’t know if he should admire that tenacious quality of yours or not. Even still, Ignis waffles on his conclusion that you’re just pulling his leg. Because if you _are_ being facetious when you compliment him for his unconventional dishes (like he assumes you are), then you sure are one hell of an actor. However, he can't think of what else you might be trying to accomplish other than aggravating him because you know he's trying to mess with everyone. 

Through pursed lips, your comrade queries in a friendly tone that perfectly conceals his frustration, “Did you enjoy dinner?” 

“Yes, of course!” Is your swift, honest answer. Sure, you thought the water was a little weird and you’d had to give Noct a death glare to keep him from cracking wise about it, but it’s the thought that counts. You don’t want to stomp all over Iggy’s creative spirit, after all. An assumption is made on your part. Not for a second do you think these bizarre foods are part of a prank to get a reaction out of you. You think they’re Iggy’s outlet. 

Honestly? It’s not the most far-fetched conclusion that you can come up with. For the man who arguably does the most physical and emotional labor in the group, you believe it’s perfectly reasonable for him to decompress in the kitchen. Besides, it’s _kinda_ his fault that the joking intent is lost on you, ‘cause most of the food tastes good even if it’s hotter than hell or an outlandish flavor combination. 

Emerald eyes narrow, observing you closely through fine lashes. “Really?” When you hum your assurances, focused on trying to get leftover oil off of a plate, Ignis tests you, “What _exactly_ did you enjoy?” 

“Uh...” At the way you pause, looking visibly flustered, the brunet thinks he’s finally caught you at your little teasing game. 

He knew it! You _have_ been screwing with him this whole time! What kind of stomach does a person need to have to eat not one but _three_ whole peppers, anyway? _Of course_ you'd only eat that if you were trying to turn his game around on him. Triumphant, Iggy allows himself to feel admiration for your commitment to this little game that you’ve been playing. After enduring all manner of culinary oddities, you’ve earned his respect as a fellow mischief-maker. 

But then you peer at him in the soft light of the campfire and the stars, and admit, “The thing is, I enjoy everything that you make because I appreciate the effort that you put forth to take care of everyone. We _all_ do a lot during the day; hunting, fighting imperials, and just running around in  general. But even after all of that, you still make sure that everyone has a meal and that... _That’s_ what I enjoy.” A dazzling grin is shot at him and you praise, “Thank you, Ignis.” 

Emerald eyes blink rapidly. Slowly but surely, his cheeks flush pink. Now he knows your little game. 


	9. Prompto: Colors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't necessarily a request, however it references a brief calligraphy video where obscenities are written. The non- request reads: _I just saw that video of someone writing Cock Noodles! in really pretty calligraphy and just wanted to inform you that I can see that when Prom is having a down day M/C sits next to him and writes shit like that really prettily and it has Prompto laughing so hard his drink shoots out his nose every. Damn. Time._
> 
> Shall we shitpost?
> 
> **Warnings:** Language! Okay? Just Language!

**Colors**

There are a few things that you can do to cheer up a sad Prompto. He’s not particularly prone to bouts of melancholy, but he’s not immune to them, either. While the other guys have their own ways of putting a smile back on the blond’s face, it’s obvious that Prom prefers _yours_. It was love at first destroyed nasal passages... That’s how the saying goes, right? He quickly learns not to drink anything when he’s sad and you’re around.

At the first sigh, at the first frown, at the first glisten in those cornflower blue eyes, you break out your calligraphy pen and inkwell and you unroll a nice piece of parchment. Wherever he is, you waltz on up to him and sit down beside him. The parchment is spread out, all crisp and clean, and you carefully dip the pen in the ink.

You’ve purchased an outrageous amount of inks for just this purpose. Gold, plum, ochre, chartreuse, magenta, and every other pretentious color one can think of. A pretty gil has been spent for quite possibly the most ridiculous ritual you’ve ever adopted. When you start this ceremony, he’s enraptured. Fears and sorrows are forgotten for the elegant way that you conduct this most important of events. Your face is placid, eyes hooded, and you roll up the sleeves of your sweater. He always tries to guess what you’re going to write. He’s never correct.

“Fucktrumpet” is penned in vermillion.

“Bitchtits” is written in heliotrope.

“Assbadger” gets composed in celadon.

And “Dickweed” is printed in cerise.

Blue eyes shine, freckled cheeks turning pink as a hand is slapped over the shutterbug’s mouth. Shoulders shake uncontrollably but he always holds it in because he has to see the hypnotizing arc of your steady hand at work. You work slowly, skillfully, to write these words in vibrant ink on flawless parchment. When you’re done, you pull the pen away with a theatrical flourish and you’re showered with applause and hysterical laughter. The tears in his eyes are happy ones now and you’re rewarded with the tightest hug on Eos. You have to hold up each one so he can snap a photo. Prompto keeps them all.


	10. 04. Dust (RR)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here we have the new format for the romance chapters. 'Cause romance routes are deviations where you have different interactions depending on the route you choose (no, it's not name-swapping with the same dialogue, your interactions with the guys change based on the route, _especially_ later on), romance chapters will now have all routes within one chapter. So, rather than 04. Noctis Route: Dust, 04. Prompto Route: Dust, etc., it's just 04. Dust (RR) to denote that it's a romance route chapter and the separate routes are signaled by a page break with the guy's name centered and in bold. Good? Good.
> 
> Everybody loves a nerd. Also, this is the chapter in which it’s revealed you’re basically a mage with a typical “rogue” skill-set. Cue the eye rolling. Apologies in advance.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Mild Angst, Mage Magnetism, Prince of Snark, Awkward Prompto, Specs’ Got Game... Kinda... If You Squint, Gladio’s Flirting Crimes Against Mages

** 04\. Dust **

** Noctis Route **

“Thank you _so_ much for your dedication, Ms. Aurum.” You bow your head regally to the blonde and swear you see her cheeks color a bit underneath the oil stains that she wears like warpaint. “I couldn’t have asked for a more capable mechanic.” 

You’re laying on the charm real thick, sure, but it gets you a cute chocobo decal from the lovely lady. This is one of the things that arguably makes you dangerous. For someone who can’t take a punch to save their life and probably has their picture next to the definition of “glass cannon,” you had to develop a cunning skill set to not get beaten up on a near weekly basis from the odd brutish student who dared call themselves a mage. 

Pickpocketing, lock-picking, and being light of foot is usually enough to save your skin. But when all else fails, you have a tongue of polished silver. Funny, considering when your well-being _isn’t_ on the line and you _aren’t_ trying to get one over on someone, you’re about as slick as sandpaper. 

“Well, ain’t you the charmin’ one? It was my pleasure to work on that lil’ cutie.” Cindy claps a hand down on your shoulder with a winning smile and you feel heat rush up your neck. “If you ever need work on ‘im, I’m _always_ up for the challenge.” 

You bite your lower lip and her green eyes flicker down, that smile slowly turning into a coy smirk. Honestly, you don’t do that on purpose. Sure, you can dish out flirtations and charm when you’re being a manipulative little sneak, but when it’s _reciprocated_...? Well, usually no one ever calls your bluff. In your experience, your charms are just enough to get someone to _not_ cold-cock you just for being an Iovita. Romance hasn’t ever been an outcome. _Never_. 

“Hey, Cindy? Did you say that you needed us to find something for you?” Prompto interrupts your moment with the mechanic and you’re immensely grateful. That is, until you turn to give Prom an appreciative smile only to find him staring at you with the weirdest expression on his face. With your burgeoning relationships in mind, Prompto’s chilly look has you hoping you didn’t just unwittingly screw everything up. 

“ _Well,”_ you think pragmatically, _“I can always beg for forgiveness.”_

And how could he reject you if you beg? If these past few days have taught you anything, it’s that Prompto is a huge softy who seemingly can’t stay mad at anyone, Noct sure as hell _pretends_ to be mad (you took a bit of bacon off of his plate and he acted like you declared war on his kingdom but then the _very next morning_ he gave you his bacon... What even?), Gladio is a pro at dishing out tough love, and Ignis is basically a saint with added sass. 

“Hm? Don’t think so.” Cindy releases your shoulder, brow furrowed at the sharpshooter. 

Not wanting to wait for the situation to get any more tense, you mosey on over to Choco Jr. like you didn’t just conjure up awkwardness like it’s your favorite spell. The afternoon air is nice and crisp but you know it’s going to get warm soon. Excitement chases away that social faux pas, the anticipation of riding out to Galdin Quay today and taking the ferry to Altissia turning Prompto’s serious look into a distant memory. 

The scooter has a fresh coat of chocobo-yellow paint and looks better than you think it might’ve looked when even Drusa first bought it. The tires actually have tread, the seat has been refurbished with pristine white leather, and the headlight is crystal clear rather than foggy. The moped even has a distinctly neutral scent from the wax Cindy used to get the whole thing all shiny and new. Six, no wonder the repairs cost you a small fortune. 

“Wow. You’re ab-so-lutely beautiful,” you murmur to the moped, running your hand over the seat and reveling in how soft the leather is. 

“Do you speak to your scooter often?” 

In an instant you whip around to face Ignis who is smiling faintly at you. With a scowl you scoff, “ _No_. I just haven’t seen him in a while.”  


“Him?” The way the corners of his mouth quirk up almost imperceptibly at your expense makes  you bare your teeth. Told you. A saint with _sass_.  


“Oh, hush. I’ve heard you all refer to the Regalia as ‘she’ and ‘her,’ so don’t try and tease me  about this. You don’t have a leg to stand on, Scientia.” 

“Of course, Iovita.” The tactician pulls a face full of totally fake remorse and you roll your eyes. Just as you’re about to tell him that you know he’s being facetious, you notice that he’s been keeping his arms behind his back all the while. 

Eyes narrow suspiciously. “What do you have behind your back? You aren’t about to bludgeon me to death, are you?” 

His eyebrows crinkle up in innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”  


“Despite the circumstances of my sheltered upbringing, I’m not _that_ dumb, Iggy.” 

“Why, I never implied anything of the sort,” Ignis tuts before revealing his hand and a glossy white helmet that he holds by its chinstrap, “however, your lack of safety precautions might lead some to think otherwise.” 

"A _helmet_?" You snort, eyeing the bone-white thing with its perfectly clean visor and wishing you hadn’t pushed him to show you what he was hiding. "Only nerds wear helmets." 

Ignis is positively unamused. "People who care for their own safety wear helmets." He firmly pushes the headgear into your hands. "And your health is more important than your image." 

With a defeated sigh, you relent and hold the white headgear under your arm. "Okay, okay. Thank you, mother." 

"You're quite welcome." 

Uh-oh. He’s giving you an expectant look. He totally wants you to wear it right now. When the sunlight glints off of his lenses and he looks like a villain from your favorite anime, you know you shouldn’t argue. Grumbling all the while, you put the helmet on and dramatically flick the visor down. It’s not _too_ bad, if you’re being perfectly honest. A couple of decals and maybe you won’t look like a mothball ( _Ooh_ , maybe you can put the chocobo decal on it?). And the way Ignis smiles approvingly kinda makes wearing the damn thing worth it. 

Just as you’re starting to get used to the idea of wearing the dorky headgear and you’re growing accustomed to the added weight, you hear someone bellow from the convenience store, “Whoa! Nice helmet, nerd!” 

Ignis cuts his eyes to the bodyguard. “ _Gladio_.” 

Gladiolus grins good-naturedly, arms full of supplies and junk that he and Noct purchased from the shop. The prince has one of those small half-smiles on his face the second his eyes land on your helmet, blue eyes practically simmering. Okay, that’s it! Just as you attempt to yank the damn thing off of your head, Ignis firmly places his hand down on the helmet, preventing you from taking it off. He even buckles the chinstrap for added measure. The small whine that leaves you has the prince’s strategist chuckling. 

“Chill out, (y/n), it doesn’t look _that_ bad,” Noct needles, now wearing a full-on smirk, “you just look like a cotton ball.” 

Gladio barks a laugh at the prince’s words and your upper lip twitches. Such a shame you vowed to protect this guy. Right now you want more than anything to be able to send a little spark his way... Then again, that wouldn’t be too smart since you’re literally standing in front of a gas pump. Yikes. 

“We headed out?” Prom asks, seeming to pop up out of nowhere and he shoots you what he probably thinks is a stealthy glance. 

“Yes. We really shouldn’t delay.” Ignis nods, popping the Regalia’s trunk so Gladio and Noct can put away their purchases. 

You swear you spot the bright packaging of a familiar brand of chips. This is confirmed when you hear Ignis’ disappointed sigh and grumblings about saturated fats. All the while, Prompto looks like he wants to say something to you. Not one for confrontation, you don’t make the first move. Neither does he. 

“ _Cold war,”_ you brood uneasily. 

You’re shocked by how quiet Choco Jr. is when you start him up and you feel like you’re in a dream when you hit the road and your eardrums aren’t assaulted by the sounds of a slowly and painfully dying engine. Tires glide smoothly down the road and you find that you don’t have to constantly jerk the handlebars to keep the moped going straight. The next time you see Cindy, you’re gonna have to thank her properly. 

From way up ahead, you spot Prompto sitting up out of his seat and twisting around, cornflower blue eyes locked on you. He cups his hands around his mouth and just starts yelling. Is he...? He looks like he's trying to _talk_ to you, yelling over the wind in vain, blond eyebrows knitted  together. You squint in surprise that he would even try to do something so dumb, I mean can't he talk to you at the next rest stop if it’s that important? What doesn't surprise you is when Gladiolus takes his great big paw of a hand, slaps it over Prompto's face, and forces the blond to sit back in his seat. 

You snort. 

Galdin Quay is a vision. The water is such a pure blue and the beaches are so clean that you realize the little sliver of blue that you could _just_ make out from the window in your mother’s office doesn’t do the place any justice. You excuse yourself from the others to go and examine the local flora, making them swear to come get you before they head off. Noct gently teases that they couldn’t leave you behind even if they wanted to. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to yourself, having found a bit of scrap metal while getting up close and personal with the grass. You had been looking for herbs or something to make a potion, but didn’t have much luck on that front. 

When Noct finds you sprawled on your stomach, picking through grass, he snorts. You hop up with a start, looking around the prince for the others. Noticing your confusion, the Crown Prince explains, “Ferry’s out and some reporter wants us to find him some ore in order to get a way into Altissia.” Blue eyes watch you from beneath raven bangs, clearly irritated, “Time to hit the road. Get on that lame scooter of yours and let’s head out.” 

“ _And off we go. Again. Not to Altissia.”_

You’re trying not to feel bitter and like you’re being jerked around. But the hunt for “some ore” turns into a moment for everyone to see the limits of your adventurousness... It was just a quick little trip down the road and a small hike up to a clifftop. Some totally normal stuff. Completely boring stuff. And you have absolutely no freakin’ clue how _nobody_ spotted the giant damn bird sleeping in the exact spot you all needed to search for _some ore_. How could no one see something large enough to swallow someone whole? 

Sure, the bird is beautiful and you shakily bring your phone up to take a photo, nearly dying on the spot when your flash goes off and Noct cuts his intense silvery-blue eyes to you- hissing at you to knock it off and thinking Gladio had it right when he started calling you a tourist. Luckily for you, the bird is dead to the world. Or so you think. 

As the others sneak by the slumbering bird, you’re frozen to the spot, pressed so hard against the cliffside that you swear you’ll become one with the rock. It takes you what feels like ages to build up the nerve to follow on your hands and knees, swearing to Ramuh that he’d better have your back if things go south. And maybe he listens. Because when the bird inevitably awakens on your trip back, ore in hand, (you swear it’s Prompto’s constant freaking out that does the trick) you just barely miss getting hip-checked by one of its massive wings. 

The gust of wind that whooshes from the bird’s impossibly large black wings has your jacket flipping up and over your head. You’re blindly fumbling for your staff, swears falling from your lips in panic, as the behemoth lets out an eardrum-shattering cry. You’re dead. You’re _so_ dead! But suddenly your jacket is pulled back down and you’re able to see again. Cerulean eyes twinkle down at you and you just _know_ the prince is having a hell of a time not laughing at you. Yup. He has that trademark ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Relax, (y/n), it’s already gone. I think all of your screaming is what drove it away in the first place.” 

You’re grateful that you ride alone on the moped back to Galdin Quay. Able to simmer in  humiliation in silence because you’d been _so sure_ that you were about to get eaten by a giant bird... you’d even been yelling, “Don’t you _dare_ eat me you giant, feathery asshole, or I’ll make you explode from the inside out!” when Noct came to your rescue. Occasionally the prince turns his head as if he’s looking out at the scenery, arm resting against the Regalia, but you catch a hint of blue hidden beneath those bangs and know he’s watching you. You almost wish the bird had eaten you. 

Back in Galdin Quay, Noct hands over the ore to his contact while you stay in the restaurant, asking the chef, Coctura, where she studied and if she’s familiar with any of the cooks back in the Spire since you remember hearing them say her name; just making friendly chit chat in general since you’re so accustomed to chatting up cooks. Talking to her evokes a comforting familiarity that makes your mindless chatter easy and you have her laughing at lame jokes before you know it. Somehow you all end up with a room (you nearly have a stroke when you see a room is _10,000 gil_ ) and when she hears you’re staying, Coctura promises to make you a wonderful breakfast to see you off on your trip. 

As you make to enter the hotel room, someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back. “Hey, (y/n).” Prompto gives you an unsure smile. “Can we, uh, talk for a second?” 

You glance back at the others who are hilariously bad at pretending not to notice this little conversation unfurling before turning back to Prom and shrugging. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Prompto takes you aside to one of the docks where the two of you stand in silence for a while. Tension slowly builds in your gut, so you opt to look out at the dark water, pretending to enjoy the scenery even though you’re internally freaking out. You swear he’s angry. You’re absolutely positive that you’re in for a tongue-lashing from perhaps the nicest member of Noct’s entourage. And all you did was flirt! 

“About earlier, with Cindy...” Prompto starts but stops. You look at him but he doesn’t look at you. 

“Mmhm?” 

“What was that about?” 

Eyebrows rise on instinct when you notice how red his ears are. “Innocent praise bordering on flirtation.” It comes out so robotic. He looks shocked by how blunt you are. “What? Do you have a thing for her? Can’t say I blame you. She’s skilled and attractive. Very dedicated to her craft, too. Those are all very appealing traits.” 

Okay, pause. The problem here is that you have a very hard time picking up on subtle cues that bely anything _other than_ malicious intent. After you turned thirteen you practically grew up walking on eggshells since you were then in the age range of the youngest students to be allowed entry into the Spire (aged fifteen to nineteen), so some of the bruisers saw you as “fair game” for their misdirected ire because apparently turning thirteen means you can take (and totally deserve) a punch. What is logic? 

With this in mind, you can only perceive the flush in Prompto’s skin, the fact that he pulled you aside for a dreaded one-on-one chat, and his reluctance to make eye contact to mean that he’s angry with you. Just angry, nothing else. An unfortunate consequence of growing up surrounded by mages-in-training with inferiority complexes exacerbated by having to “compete” with a kid who _an entire kingdom_ recognizes as one of the _only_ “real” mages on the planet. 

But Prompto doesn’t know this. He’s not privy to the bizarre nuances of your upbringing despite having poured over biographies that were largely built on fiction, since not a single one of those “authors” actually interviewed _you_ but instead got their information from Spire grads who just  passed you in the halls or had a class with you. In fact, you only had three visitors in the Spire. An aunt who later died in service to King Regis, a weird “uncle” who visited once every few years, and the Oracle... a story for another time. 

“Well, I _do_ , but I’m not ma-” Prompto stammers, taken off-guard by how you speak almost rapid- fire. He thinks you’re being defensive, that he hurt your feelings, but in reality you’re quickly trying to defuse what you think is a confrontation. It’s a war between two awkward fools who fear losing a friend. 

“Say no more.” You wave a hand dismissively and Prom furrows his brow. This isn’t going anything like how he wanted. “If we ever see her again, I’ll refrain from being so forward and the ball will be in her court, as the kids say.” 

“Kids don’t say that,” he murmurs. 

“No harm no foul?” 

The blond squints at you, wondering if you’re about to say “How do you do, fellow kids?” since you’re so damn awkward it should be a crime. Instead of saying this, Prom merely replies at great length, “That’s... okay.” 

In your haste to put an end to this conversation, you throw the sharpshooter a strained smile, pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, and head back to the hotel room, swearing to never harmlessly flirt with anyone in front of Prompto again lest you have a repeat of this tragic episode- or to at least check and see if he’s crushing on the victim of your charm _beforehand_. And Prompto swears to never corner you again. 

Well, he swears to himself that if he ever needs to talk to you alone again he won’t let his nerves get the best of him. Because now he’s very much aware of how awkward you are, despite your cool and somewhat haughty exterior. It’s somewhat of a relief to him since he thought you were a bit unapproachable at times. When he follows you to the hotel room, he’s smiling and doesn’t feel nearly as bad as before. Hell, he’s even glad that Gladio stopped his yelling to you that you two “needed to have a serious talk.” That only would’ve made things worse. Obviously. 

“Hey every- Ow!” The second you open the door to the hotel room, a bag of chips hits you square in the chest. 

“Shit! Sorry! I thought you were Prompto.” Gladio winces. “You really need to work on your reflexes, (y/n).” 

“Or you can just not assault me with potato chips in the future, Gladio,” you murmur, bending down and swiping up the bag that’s now most likely full of broken chips. 

“Or you can be ready for sneak attacks!” Prompto crows, joining in on Gladio’s teasing. 

“ _Or_ everyone can knock it off,” murmurs Noct from his sprawled position on the couch opposite the others. 

“Would anyone care for room service?” Ignis inquires, flipping through a menu as he lounges on one of the couches. He’s obviously trying to put the issue to bed before anyone can get anymore irritated. 

“Not at _those_ prices,” you snort, ripping open the bag of chips and popping one in your mouth. 

Prompto reaches over your shoulder from behind and grabs a handful for himself before asking, “Isn’t Coctura making you breakfast?” 

_That_ gets Noct’s attention. The prince frowns and complains, “What? She’s only making breakfast for (y/n)?” You don’t miss the accusatory look he throws your way. 

Gladio grins. “ _Uh-huh_. Heard her say it herself. (y/n)’s a bit of a ladykiller.” 

Noct’s stare intensifies. With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you throw yourself down on the couch between Ignis and Gladio. “I’m no such thing. I just know how to _talk_ to people.” You swear you hear Ignis snort next to you. Even Prompto is biting his lip, cheeks dimpling as he struggles to keep his laughter in. Well, that’s two of the four who know you have the social skills of a  toad. “ _Anyway_ ,” you grumble, “we should all get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us.” 

“Food first,” argues Noct, sitting up so Prompto can finally sit down. “I’m _starving_ and I didn’t  have the luxury of chatting up the chef to get a meal.” 

“ _How long is he going to complain about that?”_ You brood at the prince’s surprising pettiness. If you’d known everyone and their grandma had a crush on Coctura, you just would’ve kept your mouth shut. 

The others agree with Noct’s request for food even as Gladio steals chips from the bag in your lap. You and Gladio fill up on chips so you two end up splitting a dish and mercifully cutting down the total cost of the meal, which comes out to a fortune. It’s as you’re popping a bit of grilled fish in your mouth that Noct goes in for the kill. 

“Hey, (y/n),” blue eyes watch you mischievously from beneath dark bangs, “do all mages have a fear of being eaten alive by birds?” 

The fish gets lodged in your throat and it takes Ignis firmly patting your back for you to come back from the brink of death. “ _What_?” You gasp, voice gravelly from your near-death experience. 

The corner of his mouth ticks up into a smirk. “For someone who can turn a dualhorn into a well- done steak, you sure did scream a lot when the bird took off,” Noct continues his teasing and you try to melt into the couch. 

“Yeah,” Gladio laughs, “they sure do have a set of lungs on ‘em, huh?” 

The night ends with everyone taking their jabs at you. Even Ignis joins in on the “fun,” saying that he thought you were casting some sort of curse until he saw you with your jacket over your head. Prompto reveals that he actually got that moment on camera and Noct tells him to save it while you excuse yourself for bed, unable to look anyone in the eye. 

Tragedy hits when you least expect it. It seems to have a habit of doing that. 

When you stumble out of the Quayside Cradle and into the open air of the restaurant, you immediately notice the eerie, heavy silence that isn’t from the early hour. Coctura is slumped forward with her back to you, the faint sound of a smart, tinny voice speaking out into the dead air, the smell of something burning reaching your nose. The voice from her phone is sombre and matter-of-fact, it reminds you of the time Drusa took you aside to tell you Magister Illara, a woman older than your grandfather, had died in her sleep. It fills your stomach with dread but you tell yourself that you’re overreacting. 

“Coctura? Is everything okay?” You sniff. “Something’s burning.” 

The chef whips around, face tear-streaked and eyes cloudy. Your stomach sinks. Coctura’s lips tremble as she speaks, “Oh... (y/n). You’re awake. I’d always heard you mages liked getting up b-bright and early.” She’s trying so hard to sound chipper but it fails. “I was just, um, prepping.”  She quickly turns away to scrape the burned thing off of the stovetop. 

Alarm sets your teeth on edge and you slowly close the distance between the two of you, the countertop feeling too cold beneath your palms. “What’s happened?” 

“Insomnia-” She can’t get the rest out before breaking down into sobs, one hand coming up to cover her mouth, a futile effort to stifle the noise. 

The Empire’s attack on Insomnia leaves you feeling empty. It’s difficult for you to properly mourn over a city and people you’d never met, to mourn beside the others who actually lost people they’d known all their lives. Especially Noct and Gladio. Six, _especially them_.  You feel like an imposter with your tears, so you hide them away- hide your face behind a mug of coffee, behind the Iovita grimoire, behind anything you can get your hands on. You hide until plans are made to go see Insomnia for yourselves. It’s when you’re planning the trip to the Crown City that you get the call. 

“(y/n),” Drusa breathes into the phone, sounding relieved, “you’re all right. Good.” 

“Yes,” you purse your lips, under the scrutinizing gaze of Noct who is full of suspicion after these recent events, “what is it?” 

“You need to come back to the Spire this instant.” 

Eyes roll at the drama of it all, probably your mother’s doing, and you reply, “Fine. I need to pick some things up, anyway, and Noc-” 

“Don’t bring the prince,” her voice is so low now you can barely even hear her. Then she raises it, a maternal edge to her tone, “Now, enough daemon hunting, (y/n). You’ve had your fun. It’s time to be serious. You’re needed here immediately.” She hangs up before you can ask her what she’s going on about. 

“ _What the hell was that?”_

After you tuck your phone away, you turn to address Noct. He’s been quiet ever since Ignis broke the news to him (you hadn’t told anyone that you knew beforehand from Coctura). He sits away from the others in the hotel room but his eyes are trained on you, unblinking. “Noct-” 

“What?” He hisses from between his teeth and you look away. He hasn’t wanted anyone to actually talk to him since the news broke, either. Already tired of the couple of sympathetic looks thrown his way by the others. 

“I’m going back to the Spire,” you announce.  


His eyes burn you like fire and you glance over to find him glaring, just as you suspected. “So,  that’s it, huh? Insomnia _supposedly_ falls and you-” 

“Have a little faith,” you spit with too much venom than intended. “I’m _needed_ back at the Spire. My mother probably just wants to make sure I’m okay and I need to pick some things up anyway. It’ll make our journey a bit easier.” 

Prompto glances nervously between you and his best friend. “You sure that’s a good idea?” 

“We’ll go with you,” Gladio insists, brow creased with worry. “It’ll be quick. Then we’ll go to Insomnia.” 

You give the big guy a kind smile but admit, “I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Why not?” Noct queries, sounding accusatory though there’s a hint of concern under all that rage. 

“If the news is legitimate... The Spire has eyes and ears everywhere and not everyone is sympathetic to your cause. Some students hail from places other than Lucis.” At Noct’s narrowed eyes you huff, “Don’t look at me like that. The Spire takes anyone who can pay. It’s not _my_ fault.” 

Ignis hums and nods his head determinedly, “We’ll go with you but we won’t enter the Spire. You must make the trip a quick one, (y/n). Time is of the essence.” 

You’re surprised that they’re even willing to take this detour with you. But you won’t have it. You won’t keep them all in suspense while you go deal with your mother’s overbearing tendencies. “No. When we get to the fork in the road, I’ll be headed west and you four need to be headed east. If anything happens, we’ll just meet up at Hammerhead. Noctis has my number.” And with that, you’re off. Unaware of just how deeply the attack on the Crown City affects you. 

* * *

**Prompto Route**

“Thank you _so_ much for your dedication, Ms. Aurum.” You bow your head regally to the blonde and swear you see her cheeks color a bit underneath the oil stains that she wears like warpaint. “I couldn’t have asked for a more capable mechanic.” 

You’re laying on the charm real thick, sure, but it gets you a cute chocobo decal from the lovely lady. This is one of the things that arguably makes you dangerous. For someone who can’t take a punch to save their life and probably has their picture next to the definition of “glass cannon,” you had to develop a cunning skill set to not get beaten up on a near weekly basis from the odd brutish student who dared call themselves a mage. 

Pickpocketing, lock-picking, and being light of foot is usually enough to save your skin. But when all else fails, you have a tongue of polished silver. Funny, considering when your well-being _isn’t_ on the line and you _aren’t_ trying to get one over on someone, you’re about as slick as sandpaper. 

“Well, ain’t you the charmin’ one? It was my pleasure to work on that lil’ cutie.” Cindy claps a hand down on your shoulder with a winning smile and you feel heat rush up your neck. “If you ever need work on ‘im, I’m _always_ up for the challenge.” 

You bite your lower lip and her green eyes flicker down, that smile slowly turning into a coy smirk. Honestly, you don’t do that on purpose. Sure, you can dish out flirtations and charm when you’re being a manipulative little sneak, but when it’s _reciprocated_...? Well, usually no one ever calls your bluff. In your experience, your charms are just enough to get someone to _not_ cold-cock you just for being an Iovita. Romance hasn’t ever been an outcome. _Never_. 

“Hey, Cindy? Did you say that you needed us to find something for you?” Prompto interrupts your moment with the mechanic and you’re immensely grateful. That is, until you turn to give Prom an appreciative smile only to find him staring at you with the weirdest expression on his face. With your burgeoning relationships in mind, Prompto’s chilly look has you hoping you didn’t just unwittingly screw everything up. 

“ _Well,”_ you think pragmatically, _“I can always beg for forgiveness.”_

And how could he reject you if you beg? If these past few days have taught you anything, it’s that Prompto is a huge softy who seemingly can’t stay mad at anyone (especially not you, for whatever reason), Noct sure as hell _pretends_ to be mad (you took a bit of bacon off of his plate and he acted  like you declared war on his kingdom), Gladio is a pro at dishing out tough love, and Ignis is basically a saint with added sass. 

“Hm? Don’t think so.” Cindy releases your shoulder, brow furrowed at the sharpshooter. 

Not wanting to wait for the situation to get any more tense, you mosey on over to Choco Jr. like you didn’t just conjure up awkwardness like it’s your favorite spell. The afternoon air is nice and crisp but you know it’s going to get warm soon. Excitement chases away that social faux pas, the anticipation of riding out to Galdin Quay today and taking the ferry to Altissia turning Prompto’s serious look into a distant memory. 

The scooter has a fresh coat of chocobo-yellow paint and looks better than you think it might’ve looked when even Drusa first bought it. The tires actually have tread, the seat has been refurbished with pristine white leather, and the headlight is crystal clear rather than foggy. The moped even has a distinctly neutral scent from the wax Cindy used to get the whole thing all shiny and new. Six, no wonder the repairs cost you a small fortune. 

“Wow. You’re ab-so-lutely beautiful,” you murmur to the moped, running your hand over the seat and reveling in how soft the leather is. 

“Do you speak to your scooter often?”  


In an instant you whip around to face Ignis who is smiling faintly at you. With a scowl you scoff,  “ _No_. I just haven’t seen him in a while.”  


“Him?” The way the corners of his mouth quirk up almost imperceptibly at your expense makes  you bare your teeth. Told you. A saint with _sass_.  


“Oh, hush. I’ve heard you all refer to the Regalia as ‘she’ and ‘her,’ so don’t try and tease me  about this. You don’t have a leg to stand on, Scientia.” 

“Of course, Iovita.” The tactician pulls a face full of totally fake remorse and you roll your eyes. Just as you’re about to tell him that you know he’s being facetious, you notice that he’s been keeping his arms behind his back all the while. 

Eyes narrow suspiciously. “What do you have behind your back? You aren’t about to bludgeon me to death, are you?” 

His eyebrows crinkle up in innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”  


“Despite the circumstances of my sheltered upbringing, I’m not _that_ dumb, Iggy.” 

“Why, I never implied anything of the sort,” Ignis tuts before revealing his hand and a glossy white helmet that he holds by its chinstrap, “however, your lack of safety precautions might lead some to think otherwise.” 

"A _helmet_?" You snort, eyeing the bone-white thing with its perfectly clean visor and wishing you hadn’t pushed him to show you what he was hiding. "Only nerds wear helmets." 

Ignis is positively unamused. "People who care for their own safety wear helmets." He firmly pushes the headgear into your hands. "And your health is more important than your image." 

With a defeated sigh, you relent and hold the white headgear under your arm. "Okay, okay. Thank you, mother." 

"You're quite welcome." 

Uh-oh. He’s giving you an expectant look. He totally wants you to wear it right now. When the sunlight glints off of his lenses and he looks like a villain from your favorite anime, you know you shouldn’t argue. Grumbling all the while, you put the helmet on and dramatically flick the visor down. It’s not _too_ bad, if you’re being perfectly honest. A couple of decals and maybe you won’t look like a mothball ( _Ooh_ , maybe you can put the chocobo decal on it?). And the way Ignis smiles approvingly kinda makes wearing the damn thing worth it. 

Just as you’re starting to get used to the idea of wearing the dorky headgear and you’re growing accustomed to the added weight, you hear someone bellow from the convenience store, “Whoa! Nice helmet, nerd!” 

Ignis cuts his eyes to the bodyguard. “ _Gladio_.” 

Gladiolus grins good-naturedly, arms full of supplies and junk that he and Noct purchased from the shop. The prince has one of those small smiles on his face the second his eyes land on your helmet. Okay, that’s it! Just as you attempt to yank the damn thing off of your head, Ignis firmly places his hand down on the helmet, preventing you from taking it off. He even buckles the chinstrap for added measure. The small whine that leaves you has the prince’s strategist chuckling. 

“We headed out?” Prom asks, seeming to pop up out of nowhere and he shoots you what he probably thinks is a stealthy glance. He does a double-take at your helmet, cheeks blossoming with pink. Great, even the biggest dork in the group thinks you look like a dork. 

“Yes. We really shouldn’t delay.” Ignis nods, popping the Regalia’s trunk so Gladio and Noct can put away their purchases.  You swear you spot the bright packaging of a familiar brand of chips. This is confirmed when you hear Ignis’ disappointed sigh and grumblings about saturated fats. All the while, Prompto looks like he wants to say something to you. Not one for confrontation, you don’t make the first move. Neither does he. 

“ _Cold war,”_ you brood uneasily. 

You’re shocked by how quiet Choco Jr. is when you start him up and you feel like you’re in a dream when you hit the road and your eardrums aren’t assaulted by the sounds of a slowly and painfully dying engine. Tires glide smoothly down the road and you find that you don’t have to constantly jerk the handlebars to keep the moped going straight. The next time you see Cindy, you’re gonna have to thank her properly. 

From way up ahead, you spot Prompto sitting up out of his seat and twisting around, cornflower blue eyes locked on you. He cups his hands around his mouth and just starts yelling. Is he...? He looks like he's trying to _talk_ to you, yelling over the wind in vain, blond eyebrows knitted together. You squint in surprise that he would even try to do something so dumb, I mean can't he talk to you at the next rest stop if it’s that important? What doesn't surprise you is when Gladiolus takes his great big paw of a hand, slaps it over Prompto's face, and forces the blond to sit back in his seat. 

You snort. 

Galdin Quay is a vision. The water is such a pure blue and the beaches are so clean that you realize the little sliver of blue that you could _just_ make out from the window in your mother’s office doesn’t do the place any justice. You excuse yourself from the others to go and examine the local flora, making them swear to come get you before they head off. Noct gently teases that they couldn’t leave you behind even if they wanted to. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to yourself, having found a bit of scrap metal while getting up close and personal with the grass. You had been looking for herbs or something to make a potion, but didn’t have much luck on that front. 

When Prompto finds you sprawled on your stomach, picking through grass, he smiles. It takes you a second to realize he’s there and when you do, you immediately hop up with a start, looking around the small blond for the others. Noticing your confusion, the sharpshooter explains, “Uh, the ferry’s out. We need to go find some sort of ore for this reporter and-” He sees your nonplussed expression and sighs, “Um... It’s this whole ordeal. We need to hit the road again.” 

“ _And off we go. Again. Not to Altissia.”_

Prom doesn’t seem like his usual self, though, so you’re too uneasy to complain aloud. You’re trying not to feel bitter and like you’re being jerked around. The hunt for “some ore” turns into a moment for everyone to see the limits of your adventurousness. It was just a quick little trip down the road and a small hike up to a clifftop. Some totally normal stuff. Completely boring  stuff... And you have absolutely no freakin’ clue how _nobody_ spotted the giant damn bird sleeping in the exact spot you all needed to search for _some ore_. How could no one see something large enough to swallow someone whole? 

Sure, the bird is beautiful and you shakily bring your phone up to take a photo, nearly dying on the spot when your flash goes off and Prompto whimpers and turns to you with eyes so wide that he looks like a cartoon character. Luckily for you, the bird is dead to the world. Or so you think. 

As the others sneak by the slumbering bird, you’re frozen to the spot, pressed so hard against the cliffside that you swear you’ll become one with the rock. It takes you what feels like ages to build up the nerve to follow on your hands and knees, swearing to Ramuh that he’d better have your back if things go south. And maybe he listens. Because when the bird inevitably awakens on your trip back, ore in hand, (you swear it’s Prompto’s constant freaking out and weirdly sexual whimpers that does the trick) you just barely miss getting hip-checked by one of its massive wings. 

The gust of wind that whooshes from the bird’s impossibly large black wings has your jacket flipping up and over your head. You’re blindly fumbling for your staff, swears falling from your lips in panic, as the behemoth lets out an eardrum-shattering cry. You’re dead. You’re _so_ dead! But suddenly your jacket is pulled back down and you’re able to see again. Sapphire eyes blink down at you and you just _know_ the sharpshooter is having a hell of a time not laughing at you... or not. He kinda looks concerned. 

“(y/n), don’t worry... It’s gone.” 

You’re grateful that you ride alone on the moped back to Galdin Quay. Able to simmer in humiliation in silence because you’d been _so sure_ that you were about to get eaten by a giant bird... you’d even been yelling, “Don’t you _dare_ eat me you giant, feathery asshole, or I’ll make you explode from the inside out!” when Prom came to your rescue. The sharpshooter occasionally tries to look at you in the Regalia’s side mirror and you almost wish the bird had eaten you. After a while you get so annoyed that you hang back so you can’t see him looking at you. 

Back in Galdin Quay, Noct hands over the ore to his contact while you stay in the restaurant, asking the chef, Coctura, where she studied and if she’s familiar with any of the cooks back in the Spire since you remember hearing them say her name; just making friendly chit chat in general since you’re so accustomed to chatting up cooks. Talking to her evokes a comforting familiarity that makes your mindless chatter easy and you have her laughing at lame jokes before you know it. Somehow you all end up with a room (you nearly have a stroke when you see a room is _10,000 gil_ ) and when she hears you’re staying, Coctura promises to make you a wonderful breakfast to  see you off on your trip. This earns you _the exact same damn face_ from Prom that he pulled earlier. Now you’re starting to get more annoyed than worried. 

As you make to enter the hotel room, someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back. “Hey, (y/n).” Prompto gives you an unsure smile. “Can we, uh, talk for a second?” 

You glance back at the others who are hilariously bad at pretending not to notice this little conversation unfurling before turning back to Prom and shrugging. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Prompto takes you aside to one of the docks where the two of you stand in silence for a while. Tension slowly builds in your gut, so you opt to look out at the dark water, pretending to enjoy the scenery even though you’re internally freaking out. You swear he’s angry. You’re absolutely positive that you’re in for a tongue-lashing from perhaps the nicest member of Noct’s entourage. And all you did was flirt! 

“About earlier, with Cindy...” Prompto starts but stops. You look at him but he doesn’t look at you. 

“Mmhm?” 

“What was that about?” 

Eyebrows rise on instinct when you notice how red his ears are. “Innocent praise bordering on flirtation.” It comes out so robotic. He looks shocked by how blunt you are. “What? Do you have a thing for her? Can’t say I blame you. She’s skilled and attractive. Very dedicated to her craft, too. Those are all very appealing traits.” 

Okay, pause. The problem here is that you have a very hard time picking up on subtle cues that bely anything _other than_ malicious intent. After you turned thirteen you practically grew up walking on eggshells since you were then in the age range of the youngest students to be allowed entry into the Spire (aged fifteen to nineteen), so some of the bruisers saw you as “fair game” for their misdirected ire because apparently turning thirteen means you can take (and totally deserve) a punch. What is logic? 

With this in mind, you can only perceive the flush in Prompto’s skin, the fact that he pulled you aside for a dreaded one-on-one chat, and his reluctance to make eye-contact to mean that he’s angry with you. Just angry, nothing else. An unfortunate consequence of growing up surrounded by mages-in-training with inferiority complexes exacerbated by having to “compete” with a kid who _an entire kingdom_ recognizes as one of the _only_ “real” mages on the planet. 

But Prompto doesn’t know this. He’s not privy to the bizarre nuances of your upbringing despite having poured over biographies that were largely built on fiction, since not a single one of those “authors” actually interviewed _you_ but instead got their information from Spire grads who just passed you in the halls or had a class with you. In fact, you only had three visitors in the Spire. An aunt who later died in service to King Regis, a weird “uncle” who visited once every few years, and the Oracle... a story for another time. 

“That’s not- Well, I mean I _do_ , but not-” Prompto stammers, taken off-guard by how you speak almost rapid-fire. He thinks you’re being defensive, that he hurt your feelings, but in reality you’re quickly trying to defuse what you think is a confrontation. It’s a war between two awkward, insecure fools. 

“Say no more.” You wave a hand dismissively and Prom furrows his brow. This isn’t going anything like how he wanted. “If we ever see her again, I’ll refrain from being so forward and the ball will be in her court, as the kids say.” 

“Kids don’t say that,” he murmurs. 

“No harm no foul?” 

The blond squints at you, wondering if you’re about to say “How do you do, fellow kids?” since you’re so damn awkward it should be a crime and he _shouldn’t_ find it so endearing. Instead of saying this, Prom merely replies at great length, “That’s... okay.” 

In your haste to put an end to this conversation, you throw the sharpshooter a strained smile, pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, and head back to the hotel room, swearing to never harmlessly flirt with anyone in front of Prompto again lest you have a repeat of this tragic episode- or to at least check and see if he’s crushing on the victim of your charm _beforehand_. And Prompto swears to never corner you again. 

Well, he swears to himself that the next time he needs to get you alone he won’t let his nerves get the best of him. Because now he’s very much aware of how awkward his favorite mage is, despite their cool and somewhat haughty exterior. It’s actually a relief to him to know that you aren’t some unapproachable “too-cool-for-you” type like he thought. When he follows you to the hotel room, he’s smiling and doesn’t feel nearly as bad as before. Hell, he’s even glad that Gladio stopped his yelling to you that you two “needed to have a serious talk.” That only would’ve made things worse. Hell, he fears that might’ve made you think he was mad at you and not just disappointed and desperately wanting to know what your game is. 

“Hey every- Ow!” The second you open the door to the hotel room, a bag of chips hits you square in the chest. 

“Shit! Sorry! I thought you were Prompto.” Gladio winces. “You really need to work on your reflexes, (y/n).” 

“Or you can just not assault me with potato chips in the future, Gladio,” you murmur, bending down and swiping up the bag that’s now most likely full of broken chips. 

“Would anyone care for room service?” Ignis inquires, flipping through a menu as he lounges on one of the couches. 

“Not at _those_ prices,” you snort, ripping open the bag of chips and popping one in your mouth. 

Prompto reaches over your shoulder from behind and grabs a handful for himself before asking, “Isn’t Coctura making you breakfast?” Instead of backing off, he stays hanging over your shoulder with his arm draped over you until Gladio wiggles his eyebrows at him. _That_ gets the blond to reel away like you just transformed into a viper. 

Prom’s comment gets Noct’s attention. The prince frowns and complains from his sprawled position on the other couch, “What? She’s only making breakfast for (y/n)?” 

Gladio grins, secretly directing his tease at Prom since the blond is just so damn _easy_ for the bodyguard to read. “Uh-huh. Heard her say it herself. (y/n)’s a bit of a ladykiller.” 

With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you throw yourself down on the couch between Ignis and Gladio. “I’m no such thing. I just know how to _talk_ to people.” You swear you hear Ignis snort next to you. Even Prompto is biting his lip, cheeks dimpling as he struggles to keep his laughter in. Well, that’s two of the four who know you have the social skills of a toad. “ _Anyway_ ,” you grumble, “we should all get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us.” 

“Food first,” Noct argues, sitting up so Prompto can finally sit down. “I’m _starving_.” 

The others agree even as Gladio steals chips from the bag in your lap. You and Gladio fill up on chips so you two end up splitting a dish and mercifully cutting down the total cost of the meal, which comes out to a fortune. It’s as you’re popping a bit of grilled fish in your mouth that Noct goes in for the kill. 

“Hey, (y/n),” blue eyes watch you mischievously from beneath dark bangs, “do all mages have a fear of being eaten alive by birds?” 

The fish gets lodged in your throat and it takes Ignis firmly patting your back for you to come back from the brink of death with Prompto panicking and asking if you need some water. “ _What_?” You gasp at Noct, voice gravelly from your near-death experience. 

“For someone who can turn a dualhorn into a well-done steak, you sure did scream a lot when the bird took off,” Noct continues his teasing and you try to melt into the couch. 

“Yeah,” Gladio laughs, “they sure do have a set of lungs on ‘em, huh?” 

The night ends with everyone taking their jabs at you. Even Ignis joins in on the “fun,” saying that he thought you were casting some sort of curse until he saw you with your jacket over your head. Prompto reveals that he actually got that moment on camera (with _the perfect filter_ ), and you excuse yourself for bed, unable to look anyone in the eye. 

Tragedy hits when you least expect it. It seems to have a habit of doing that. 

When you stumble out of the Quayside Cradle and into the open air of the restaurant, you immediately notice the eerie, heavy silence that isn’t from the early hour. Coctura is slumped forward with her back to you, the faint sound of a smart, tinny voice speaking out into the dead air, the smell of something burning reaching your nose. The voice from her phone is sombre and matter-of-fact, it reminds you of the time Drusa took you aside to tell you Magister Illara, a woman older than your grandfather, had died in her sleep. It fills your stomach with dread but you tell yourself that you’re overreacting. 

“Coctura? Is everything okay?” You sniff. “Something’s burning.” 

The chef whips around, face tear-streaked and eyes cloudy. Your stomach sinks. Coctura’s lips tremble as she speaks, “Oh... (y/n). You’re awake. I’d always heard you mages liked getting up b-bright and early.” She’s trying so hard to sound chipper but it fails. “I was just, um, prepping.” She quickly turns away to scrape the burned thing off of the stovetop. 

Alarm sets your teeth on edge and you slowly close the distance between the two of you, the countertop feeling too cold beneath your palms. “What’s happened?” 

“Insomnia-” She can’t get the rest out before breaking down into sobs, one hand coming up to cover her mouth, a futile effort to stifle the noise. 

The Empire’s attack on Insomnia leaves you feeling empty. It’s difficult for you to properly mourn over a city and people you’d never met, to mourn beside the others who actually lost people they’d known all their lives. Especially Noct and Gladio. Six, _especially them_.  You feel like an imposter with your tears, so you hide them away- hide your face behind a mug of coffee, behind the Iovita grimoire, behind anything you can get your hands on. You hide until plans are made to go see Insomnia for yourselves. It’s when you’re planning the trip to the Crown City that you get the call. 

“(y/n),” Drusa breathes into the phone, sounding relieved, “you’re all right. Good.” 

“Yes,” you purse your lips, under the curious gaze of Prompto who looks concerned by your hesitance, “what is it?” 

“You need to come back to the Spire this instant.” 

Eyes roll at the drama of it all, probably your mother’s doing, and you reply, “Fine. I need to pick some things up, anyway, and Noc-” 

“Don’t bring the prince,” her voice is so low now you can barely even hear her. Then she raises it, a maternal edge to her tone, “Now, enough daemon hunting, (y/n). You’ve had your fun. It’s time to be serious. You’re needed here immediately.” She hangs up before you can ask her what she’s going on about. 

“ _What the hell was that?”_

Prompto is looking at you expectantly but you don’t address him. After you tuck your phone away, you turn to address Noct. He’s been quiet ever since Ignis broke the news to him (you hadn’t told anyone that you knew beforehand from Coctura). He sits away from the others in the hotel room. “Noct-” 

“ _Don’t,_ ” he hisses from between his teeth and you look away. He hasn’t wanted anyone to talk to him since the news broke, either. Already tired of the couple of sympathetic looks thrown his way by the others. 

“I’m going back to the Spire,” you announce.

His eyes burn you like fire and you glance over to find him glaring, just as you suspected. “So,  that’s it, huh? Insomnia _supposedly_ falls and you-” 

“Have a little faith,” you spit with too much venom than intended. “I’m _needed_ back at the Spire. My mother probably just wants to make sure I’m okay and I need to pick some things up anyway. It’ll make our journey a bit easier.” 

“You sure about that?” Prom asks nervously, brows knitted together in anxiety. “Maybe one of us should go with you.” 

“Yeah, we’ll _all_ go with you,” Gladio insists, brow creased with worry. “It’ll be quick. Then we’ll go to Insomnia.” 

You give the big guy a kind smile but admit, “I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Why not?” Noct queries, sounding accusatory. 

“If the news is legitimate... The Spire has eyes and ears everywhere and not everyone is sympathetic to your cause. Some students hail from places other than Lucis.” At Noct’s narrowed eyes you huff, “Don’t look at me like that. The Spire takes anyone who can pay. It’s not _my_ fault.” 

Ignis hums and nods his head determinedly, “We’ll go with you but we won’t enter the Spire. You must make the trip a quick one, (y/n). Time is of the essence.” 

You’re surprised that they’re even willing to take this detour with you. But you won’t have it. You won’t keep them all in suspense while you go deal with your mother’s overbearing tendencies. “No. When we get to the fork in the road, I’ll be headed west and you four need to be headed east. If anything happens, we’ll just meet up at Hammerhead. Noctis has my number, anyway.” And with that, you’re off. Unaware of just how deeply the attack on the Crown City  affects you.

* * *

  **Ignis Route**

“Thank you so much for your dedication, Ms. Aurum.” You bow your head regally to the blonde and swear you see her cheeks color a bit underneath the oil stains that she wears like warpaint. “I couldn’t have asked for a more capable mechanic.” 

You’re laying on the charm real thick, sure, but it gets you a cute chocobo decal from the lovely lady. This is one of the things that arguably makes you dangerous. For someone who can’t take a punch to save their life and probably has their picture next to the definition of “glass cannon,” you had to develop a cunning skill set to not get beaten up on a near weekly basis from the odd brutish student who dared call themselves a mage. 

Pickpocketing, lock-picking, and being light of foot is usually enough to save your skin. But when all else fails, you have a tongue of polished silver. Funny, considering when your well-being _isn’t_ on the line and you _aren’t_ trying to get one over on someone, you’re about as slick as sandpaper. 

“Well, ain’t you the charmin’ one? It was my pleasure to work on that lil’ cutie.” Cindy claps a hand down on your shoulder with a winning smile and you feel heat rush up your neck. “If you ever need work on ‘im, I’m _always_ up for the challenge.” 

You bite your lower lip and her green eyes flicker down, that smile slowly turning into a coy smirk. Honestly, you don’t do that on purpose. Sure, you can dish out flirtations and charm when you’re being a manipulative little sneak, but when it’s _reciprocated_...? Well, usually no one ever calls your bluff. In your experience, your charms are just enough to get someone to _not_ cold-cock you just for being an Iovita. Romance hasn’t ever been an outcome. _Never_. 

“Hey, Cindy? Did you say that you needed us to find something for you?” Prompto interrupts your moment with the mechanic and you’re immensely grateful. That is, until you turn to give Prom an appreciative smile only to find him staring at you with the weirdest expression on his face. With your burgeoning relationships in mind, Prompto’s chilly look has you hoping you didn’t just unwittingly screw everything up. 

_“Well,”_ you think pragmatically, _“I can always beg for forgiveness.”_

And how could he reject you if you beg? If these past few days have taught you anything, it’s that Prompto is a huge softy who seemingly can’t stay mad at anyone, Noct sure as hell pretends to be mad (you took a bit of bacon off of his plate and he acted like you declared war on his kingdom),  Gladio is a pro at dishing out tough love, and Ignis is basically a saint with added sass. 

“Hm? Don’t think so.” Cindy releases your shoulder, brow furrowed at the sharpshooter. 

Not wanting to wait for the situation to get any more tense, you mosey on over to Choco Jr. like you didn’t just conjure up awkwardness like it’s your favorite spell. The afternoon air is nice and crisp but you know it’s going to get warm soon. Excitement chases away that social faux pas, the anticipation of riding out to Galdin Quay today and taking the ferry to Altissia turning Prompto’s serious look into a distant memory. 

The scooter has a fresh coat of chocobo-yellow paint and looks better than you think it might’ve looked when even Drusa first bought it. The tires actually have tread, the seat has been refurbished with pristine white leather, and the headlight is crystal clear rather than foggy. The moped even has a distinctly neutral scent from the wax Cindy used to get the whole thing all shiny and new. Six, no wonder the repairs cost you a small fortune. 

“Wow. You’re ab-so-lutely beautiful,” you murmur to the moped, running your hand over the seat and reveling in how soft the leather is. 

“Do you speak to your scooter often?”  


In an instant you whip around to face Ignis who is smiling faintly at you. With a scowl you scoff,  “ _No_. I just haven’t seen him in a while.”  


“Him?” The way the corners of his mouth quirk up almost imperceptibly at your expense makes  you bare your teeth. Told you. A saint with _sass_.  


“Oh, hush. I’ve heard you all refer to the Regalia as ‘she’ and ‘her,’ so don’t try and tease me  about this. You don’t have a leg to stand on, Scientia.” 

“Of course, Iovita.” The tactician pulls a face full of totally fake remorse and you roll your eyes. Just as you’re about to tell him that you know he’s being facetious, you notice that he’s been keeping his arms behind his back all the while. 

Eyes narrow suspiciously. “What do you have behind your back? You aren’t about to bludgeon me to death, are you?” 

His eyebrows crinkle up in innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”  


“Despite the circumstances of my sheltered upbringing, I’m not _that_ dumb, Iggy.” 

“Why, I never implied anything of the sort,” Ignis tuts before revealing his hand and a glossy white helmet that he holds by its chinstrap, “however, your lack of safety precautions might lead some to think otherwise.” 

"A _helmet_?" You snort, eyeing the bone-white thing with its perfectly clean visor and wishing you hadn’t pushed him to show you what he was hiding. "Only nerds wear helmets." 

Ignis is positively unamused. "People who care for their own safety wear helmets." He firmly pushes the headgear into your hands. The second his fingers brush against yours, you swear he might be a mage because that action alone somehow has a bolt of lightning shooting through you. You ignore it just in time to hear him add softly, "And your health is _far_ more important than your image, (y/n)." 

With a defeated sigh, you relent and hold the white headgear under your arm, a bit disconcerted by how your heart flutters but eager to laugh it off. "Okay, okay. Thank you, mother dear." 

"You're quite welcome, (y/n) dear. I’m simply happy to be of service." 

You want to snort at his snark but freeze. Uh-oh. He’s giving you an expectant look. He totally wants you to wear it right now. When the sunlight glints off of his lenses and he looks like a villain from your favorite anime, you know you shouldn’t argue. Grumbling all the while, you put the helmet on and dramatically flick the visor down. It’s not _too_ bad, if you’re being perfectly honest. A couple of decals and maybe you won’t look like a mothball (Ooh, maybe you can put the chocobo decal on it?). And the way Ignis smiles approvingly _kinda_ makes wearing the damn thing worth it. 

Just as you’re starting to get used to the idea of wearing the dorky headgear and you’re growing accustomed to the added weight, you hear someone bellow from the convenience store, “Whoa! Nice helmet, nerd!” 

Ignis cuts his eyes to the bodyguard, an unimpressed frown on his lips. “ _Gladio_.” 

Gladiolus grins good-naturedly, arms full of supplies and junk that he and Noct purchased from the shop. The prince has one of those small smiles on his face the second his eyes land on your helmet. Okay, that’s it! Just as you attempt to yank the damn thing off of your head, Ignis firmly places his hand down on the helmet, preventing you from taking it off. He even buckles the chinstrap for added measure, knuckles ghosting across your chin. The small whine that leaves you has the prince’s strategist chuckling. 

“We headed out?” Prom asks, seeming to pop up out of nowhere and he shoots you what he probably thinks is a stealthy glance. 

“Yes. We really shouldn’t delay.” Ignis nods, popping the Regalia’s trunk so Gladio and Noct can put away their purchases. 

You swear you spot the bright packaging of a familiar brand of chips. This is confirmed when you hear Ignis’ disappointed sigh and grumblings about saturated fats. All the while, Prompto looks like he wants to say something to you. Not one for confrontation, you don’t make the first move. Neither does he. 

_“Cold war,”_ you brood uneasily. 

You’re shocked by how quiet Choco Jr. is when you start him up and you feel like you’re in a dream when you hit the road and your eardrums aren’t assaulted by the sounds of a slowly and painfully dying engine. Tires glide smoothly down the road and you find that you don’t have to constantly jerk the handlebars to keep the moped going straight. The next time you see Cindy, you’re gonna have to thank her properly. 

From way up ahead, you spot Prompto sitting up out of his seat and twisting around, cornflower blue eyes locked on you. He cups his hands around his mouth and just starts yelling. Is he...? He looks like he's trying to _talk_ to you, yelling over the wind in vain, blond eyebrows knitted together. You squint in surprise that he would even try to do something so dumb, I mean can't he talk to you at the next rest stop if it’s that important? What doesn't surprise you is when Gladiolus takes his great big paw of a hand, slaps it over Prompto's face, and forces the blond to sit back in his seat. 

You snort. 

Galdin Quay is a vision. The water is such a pure blue and the beaches are so clean that you realize the little sliver of blue that you could just make out from the window in your mother’s office doesn’t do the place any justice. You excuse yourself from the others to go and examine the  local flora, making them swear to come get you before they head off. Noct gently teases that they couldn’t leave you behind even if they wanted to. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to yourself, having found a bit of scrap metal while getting up close and personal with the grass. You had been looking for herbs or something to make a potion, but didn’t have much luck on that front. 

When Ignis finds you sprawled on your stomach, picking through grass, he chuckles softly. You hop up with a start, looking around the tall guy for the others. Noticing your confusion, the tactician explains, “Unfortunately, the ferry is out. We’ve met with a reporter who alleges that he can secure us safe passage to Altissia if we find him some rare ore.” He sighs, pushing his glasses up even though they haven’t even begun to slip down the elegant slope of his nose, “Come along, (y/n). We must be off.” 

_“And off we go. Again. Not to Altissia.”_

You’re trying not to feel bitter and like you’re being jerked around. And the hunt for “some rare ore” turns into a moment for everyone to see the limits of your adventurousness... It was just a quick little trip down the road and a small hike up to a clifftop. Some totally normal stuff. Completely boring stuff. And you have absolutely _no_ freakin’ clue how nobody spotted the giant damn bird sleeping in the exact spot you all needed to search for some ore. How could no one see something large enough to swallow someone whole? 

Sure, the bird is beautiful and you shakily bring your phone up to take a photo, nearly dying on the spot when your flash goes off and Ignis turns his marginally widened eyes to you- silently damning you and thinking Gladio had it right when he started calling you a tourist. Luckily for you, the bird is dead to the world. Or so you think. 

As the others sneak by the slumbering bird, you’re frozen to the spot, pressed so hard against the cliffside that you swear you’ll become one with the rock. It takes you what feels like ages to build up the nerve to follow on your hands and knees, swearing to Ramuh that he’d better have your back if things go south. And maybe he listens. Because when the bird inevitably awakens on your trip back, ore in hand, (you swear it’s Prompto’s constant freaking out that does the trick) you just barely miss getting hip-checked by one of its massive wings. 

The gust of wind that whooshes from the bird’s impossibly large black wings has your jacket flipping up and over your head. You’re blindly fumbling for your staff, swears falling from your lips in panic, as the behemoth lets out an eardrum-shattering cry. You’re dead. You’re _so_ dead! But suddenly your jacket is pulled back down and you’re able to see again. Emerald eyes twinkle down at you and you just know the tactician is having a hell of a time not laughing at you. 

“It’s gone, (y/n). You’re perfectly safe.” 

You’re grateful that you ride alone on the moped back to Galdin Quay. Able to simmer in humiliation in silence because you’d been _so sure_ that you were about to get eaten by a giant bird... you’d even been yelling, “Don’t you _dare_ eat me you giant, feathery asshole, or I’ll make you explode from the inside out!” when Ignis came to your rescue. The tactician occasionally glances at you in the Regalia’s rearview mirror, eyes full of mirth, and you almost wish the bird had eaten you. You even hang back a bit so you can no longer easily see those teasing green eyes. 

Back in Galdin Quay, Noct hands over the ore to his contact while you stay in the restaurant, asking the chef, Coctura, where she studied and if she’s familiar with any of the cooks back in the Spire since you remember hearing them say her name; just making friendly chit chat in general since you’re so accustomed to chatting up cooks. Talking to her evokes a comforting familiarity that makes your mindless chatter easy and you have her laughing at lame jokes before you know  it. Somehow you all end up with a room (you nearly have a stroke when you see a room is _10,000 gil_ ) and when she hears you’re staying, Coctura promises to make you a wonderful breakfast to see you off on your trip. This exchange earns you a peculiar look from Ignis. 

As you make to enter the hotel room, someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back. “Hey, (y/n).” Prompto gives you an unsure smile. “Can we, uh, talk for a second?” 

You glance back at the others who are hilariously bad at pretending not to notice this little conversation unfurling before turning back to Prom and shrugging. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Prompto takes you aside to one of the docks where the two of you stand in silence for a while. Tension slowly builds in your gut, so you opt to look out at the dark water, pretending to enjoy the scenery even though you’re internally freaking out. You swear he’s angry. You’re absolutely positive that you’re in for a tongue-lashing from perhaps the nicest member of Noct’s entourage. And all you did was flirt! 

“About earlier, with Cindy...” Prompto starts but stops. You look at him but he doesn’t look at you. 

“Mmhm?” 

“What was that about?” 

Eyebrows rise on instinct when you notice how red his ears are. “Innocent praise bordering on flirtation.” It comes out so robotic. He looks shocked by how blunt you are. “What? Do you have a thing for her? Can’t say I blame you. She’s skilled and attractive. Very dedicated to her craft, too. Those are all very appealing traits.” 

Okay, pause. The problem here is that you have a very hard time picking up on subtle cues that bely _anything other than_ malicious intent. After you turned thirteen you practically grew up walking on eggshells since you were then in the age range of the youngest students to be allowed entry into the Spire (aged fifteen to nineteen), so some of the bruisers saw you as “fair game” for their misdirected ire because apparently turning thirteen means you can take (and totally deserve) a punch. What is logic? 

With this in mind, you can only perceive the flush in Prompto’s skin, the fact that he pulled you aside for a dreaded one-on-one chat, and his reluctance to make eye-contact to mean that he’s angry with you. Just angry, nothing else. An unfortunate consequence of growing up surrounded by mages-in-training with inferiority complexes exacerbated by having to “compete” with a kid who _an entire kingdom_ recognizes as one of the _only_ “real” mages on the planet. 

But Prompto doesn’t know this. He’s not privy to the bizarre nuances of your upbringing despite having poured over biographies that were largely built on fiction, since not a single one of those “authors” actually interviewed _you_ but instead got their information from Spire grads who just passed you in the halls or had a class with you. In fact, you only had three visitors in the Spire. An aunt who later died in service to King Regis, a weird “uncle” who visited once every few years, and the Oracle... a story for another time. 

“Well, I do, but I’m not ma-” Prompto stammers, taken off-guard by how you speak almost rapid- fire. He thinks you’re being defensive, that he hurt your feelings, but in reality you’re quickly trying to defuse what you think is a confrontation. It’s a war between two awkward fools who fear losing a friend. 

“Say no more.” You wave a hand dismissively and Prom furrows his brow. This isn’t going anything like how he wanted. “If we ever see her again, I’ll refrain from being so forward and the ball will be in her court, as the kids say.” 

“Kids don’t say that,” he murmurs. 

“No harm no foul?” 

The blond squints at you, wondering if you’re about to say “How do you do, fellow kids?” since you’re so damn awkward it should be a crime. Instead of saying this, Prom merely replies at great length, “That’s... okay.” 

In your haste to put an end to this conversation, you throw the sharpshooter a strained smile, pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, and head back to the hotel room, swearing to never harmlessly flirt with anyone in front of Prompto again lest you have a repeat of this tragic episode- or to at least check and see if he’s crushing on the victim of your charm _beforehand_. And Prompto swears to never corner you again. 

Well, he swears to himself that if he ever needs to talk to you alone again he won’t let his nerves get the best of him. Because now he’s very much aware of how awkward you are, despite your cool and somewhat haughty exterior. It’s somewhat of a relief to him since he thought you were a bit unapproachable at times. When he follows you to the hotel room, he’s smiling and doesn’t feel nearly as bad as before. Hell, he’s even glad that Gladio stopped his yelling to you that you two “needed to have a serious talk.” That only would’ve made things worse. Obviously. 

“Hey every- Ow!” The second you open the door to the hotel room, a bag of chips hits you square in the chest. 

“Shit! Sorry! I thought you were Prompto.” Gladio winces. “You really need to work on your reflexes, (y/n).” 

“Or you can just not assault me with potato chips in the future, Gladio,” you murmur, bending down and swiping up the bag that’s now most likely full of broken chips. 

“Would anyone care for room service?” Ignis inquires, flipping through a menu as he lounges on one of the couches. Green eyes flicker up to you. “(y/n)?” There’s a somewhat catty edge to his tone that you quirk a brow at but choose to ignore. 

“Not at _those_ prices,” you snort, ripping open the bag of chips and popping one in your mouth. 

Prompto reaches over your shoulder from behind and grabs a handful for himself before asking,  “Isn’t Coctura making you breakfast?” 

That gets Noct’s attention. The prince frowns and complains from his sprawled position on the other couch, “What? She’s only making breakfast for (y/n)?” 

Gladio grins. “Uh-huh. Heard her say it herself. (y/n)’s a bit of a ladykiller.” 

With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you throw yourself down on the couch between Ignis and Gladio. “I’m no such thing. I just know how to _talk_ to people.” You swear you hear Ignis snort next to you. Even Prompto is biting his lip, cheeks dimpling as he struggles to keep his laughter in. Well, that’s two of the four who know you have the social skills of a toad. “Anyway,” you grumble, “we should all get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us.” 

“Food first,” Noct argues, sitting up so Prompto can finally sit down. “I’m starving.” 

The others agree even as Gladio steals chips from the bag in your lap, earning himself a disapproving look from Ignis. You and Gladio fill up on chips so you two end up splitting a dish and mercifully cutting down the total cost of the meal, which comes out to a fortune. It’s as you’re popping a bit of grilled fish in your mouth that Noct goes in for the kill. 

“Hey, (y/n),” blue eyes watch you mischievously from beneath dark bangs, “do all mages have a fear of being eaten alive by birds?” 

The fish gets lodged in your throat and it takes Ignis firmly patting your back for you to come back from the brink of death. “ _What_?” You gasp, voice gravelly from your near-death experience and eyes full of pained tears. 

“For someone who can turn a dualhorn into a well-done steak, you sure did scream a lot when the bird took off,” Noct continues his teasing and you try to melt into the couch. 

“Yeah,” Gladio laughs, “they sure do have a set of lungs on ‘em, huh?” 

The night ends with everyone taking their jabs at you. Even Ignis joins in on the “fun,” saying that he thought you were casting some sort of curse until he saw you with your jacket over your head... then he just _had_ to come to your rescue lest you had a heart-attack (“I merely wanted to dispel your distress.”). Prompto reveals that he actually got that moment on camera, and you excuse yourself for bed, unable to look anyone in the eye. 

Tragedy hits when you least expect it. It seems to have a habit of doing that. 

When you stumble out of the Quayside Cradle and into the open air of the restaurant, you immediately notice the eerie, heavy silence that isn’t from the early hour. Coctura is slumped forward with her back to you, the faint sound of a smart, tinny voice speaking out into the dead air, the smell of something burning reaching your nose. The voice from her phone is sombre and matter-of-fact, it reminds you of the time Drusa took you aside to tell you Magister Illara, a woman older than your grandfather, had died in her sleep. It fills your stomach with dread but you tell yourself that you’re overreacting. 

“Coctura? Is everything okay?” You sniff. “Something’s burning.” 

The chef whips around, face tear-streaked and eyes cloudy. Your stomach sinks. Coctura’s lips tremble as she speaks, “Oh... (y/n). You’re awake. I’d always heard you mages liked getting up b-bright and early.” She’s trying so hard to sound chipper but it fails. “I was just, um, prepping.” She quickly turns away to scrape the burned thing off of the stovetop. 

Alarm sets your teeth on edge and you slowly close the distance between the two of you, the countertop feeling too cold beneath your palms. “What’s happened?” 

“Insomnia-” She can’t get the rest out before breaking down into sobs, one hand coming up to cover her mouth, a futile effort to stifle the noise. 

The Empire’s attack on Insomnia leaves you feeling empty. It’s difficult for you to properly mourn over a city and people you’d never met, to mourn beside the others who actually lost people they’d known all their lives. Especially Noct and Gladio. Six, _especially_ them.  You feel like an imposter with your tears, so you hide them away- hide your face behind a mug of coffee, behind the Iovita grimoire, behind anything you can get your hands on. You hide until plans are made to go see Insomnia for yourselves. It’s when you’re planning the trip to the Crown City that you get the call. 

“(y/n),” Drusa breathes into the phone, sounding relieved, “you’re all right. Good.” 

“Yes,” you purse your lips, under the scrutinizing gaze of Ignis who was immediately wary when your phone started ringing off the hook, “what is it?” 

“You need to come back to the Spire this instant.” 

Eyes roll at the drama of it all, probably your mother’s doing, and you reply, “Fine. I need to pick some things up, anyway, and Noc-” 

“Don’t bring the prince,” her voice is so low now you can barely even hear her. Then she raises it, a maternal edge to her tone, “Now, enough daemon hunting, (y/n). You’ve had your fun. It’s time to be serious. You’re needed here immediately.” She hangs up before you can ask her what she’s going on about. 

_“What the hell was that?”_

Ignis is looking at you expectantly but you don’t address him. After you tuck your phone away, you turn to address Noct. He’s been quiet ever since Ignis broke the news to him (you hadn’t told anyone that you knew beforehand from Coctura). He sits away from the others in the hotel room. “Noct-” 

“ _Don’t,_ ” he hisses from between his teeth and you look away. He hasn’t wanted anyone to talk to him since the news broke, either. Already tired of the couple of sympathetic looks thrown his way by the others. 

“I’m going back to the Spire,” you announce.  


His eyes burn you like fire and you glance over to find him glaring, just as you suspected. “So,  that’s it, huh? Insomnia _supposedly_ falls and you-” 

“Have a little faith,” you spit with too much venom than intended. “I’m needed back at the Spire. My mother probably just wants to make sure I’m okay and I need to pick some things up anyway. It’ll make our journey a bit easier.” 

“We’ll go with you,” Gladio insists, brow creased with worry. “It’ll be quick. Then we’ll go to Insomnia.” 

You give the big guy a kind smile but admit, “I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Why not?” Noct queries, sounding accusatory. 

“If the news is legitimate... The Spire has eyes and ears everywhere and not everyone is sympathetic to your cause. Some students hail from places other than Lucis.” At Noct’s narrowed eyes you huff, “Don’t look at me like that. The Spire takes anyone who can pay. It’s not _my_ fault.” 

Ignis hums and nods his head determinedly, “We’ll go with you but we won’t enter the Spire. You must make the trip a quick one, (y/n). Time is of the essence.” 

You’re surprised that they’re even willing to take this detour with you. But you won’t have it. You won’t keep them all in suspense while you go deal with your mother’s overbearing tendencies. “No. When we get to the fork in the road, I’ll be headed west and you four need to be headed east. If anything happens, we’ll just meet up at Hammerhead or something. Noctis has my number if things take a bad turn.” And with that, you’re off. Unaware of just how deeply the attack on the Crown City affects you. 

* * *

  **Gladiolus Route**

"Thank you _so_ much for your dedication, Ms. Aurum.” You bow your head regally to the blonde and swear you see her cheeks color a bit underneath the oil stains that she wears like warpaint. “I couldn’t have asked for a more capable mechanic.” 

You’re laying on the charm real thick, sure, but it gets you a cute chocobo decal from the lovely lady. This is one of the things that arguably makes you dangerous. For someone who can’t take a punch to save their life and probably has their picture next to the definition of “glass cannon,” you had to develop a cunning skill set to not get beaten up on a near weekly basis from the odd brutish student who dared call themselves a mage. 

Pickpocketing, lock-picking, and being light of foot is usually enough to save your skin. But when all else fails, you have a tongue of polished silver. Funny, considering when your well-being _isn’t_ on the line and you _aren’t_ trying to get one over on someone, you’re about as slick as sandpaper. 

“Well, ain’t you the charmin’ one? It was my pleasure to work on that lil’ cutie.” Cindy claps a hand down on your shoulder with a winning smile and you feel heat rush up your neck. “If you ever need work on ‘im, I’m _always_ up for the challenge.” 

You bite your lower lip and her green eyes flicker down, that smile slowly turning into a coy smirk. Honestly, you don’t do that on purpose. Sure, you can dish out flirtations and charm when you’re being a manipulative little sneak, but when it’s _reciprocated_...? Well, usually no one ever calls your bluff. In your experience, your charms are just enough to get someone to _not_ cold-cock you just for being an Iovita. Romance hasn’t ever been an outcome. _Never_. 

“Hey, Cindy? Did you say that you needed us to find something for you?” Prompto interrupts your moment with the mechanic and you’re immensely grateful. That is, until you turn to give Prom an appreciative smile only to find him staring at you with the weirdest expression on his face. With your burgeoning relationships in mind, Prompto’s chilly look has you hoping you didn’t just unwittingly screw everything up. 

“ _Well,”_ you think pragmatically, _“I can always beg for forgiveness.”_

And how could he reject you if you beg? If these past few days have taught you anything, it’s that Prompto is a huge softy who seemingly can’t stay mad at anyone, Noct sure as hell _pretends_ to be mad (you took a bit of bacon off of his plate and he acted like you declared war on his kingdom), Gladio is the master of tough love but he also tends to treat you with kid gloves, and Ignis is basically a saint with added sass. 

“Hm? Don’t think so.” Cindy releases your shoulder, brow furrowed at the sharpshooter. 

Not wanting to wait for the situation to get any more tense, you mosey on over to Choco Jr. like you didn’t just conjure up awkwardness like it’s your favorite spell. The afternoon air is nice and crisp but you know it’s going to get warm soon. Excitement chases away that social faux pas, the anticipation of riding out to Galdin Quay today and taking the ferry to Altissia turning Prompto’s serious look into a distant memory. 

The scooter has a fresh coat of chocobo-yellow paint and looks better than you think it might’ve looked when even Drusa first bought it. The tires actually have tread, the seat has been refurbished with pristine white leather, and the headlight is crystal clear rather than foggy. The moped even has a distinctly neutral scent from the wax Cindy used to get the whole thing all shiny and new. Six, no wonder the repairs cost you a small fortune. 

“Wow. You’re ab-so-lutely beautiful,” you murmur to the moped, running your hand over the seat and reveling in how soft the leather is. 

“Do you speak to your scooter often?”  


In an instant you whip around to face Ignis who is smiling faintly at you. With a scowl you scoff,  “ _No_. I just haven’t seen him in a while.”  


“Him?” The way the corners of his mouth quirk up almost imperceptibly at your expense makes  you bare your teeth. Told you. A saint with _sass_.  


“Oh, hush. I’ve heard you all refer to the Regalia as ‘she’ and ‘her,’ so don’t try and tease me  about this. You don’t have a leg to stand on, Scientia.” 

“Of course, Iovita.” The tactician pulls a face full of totally fake remorse and you roll your eyes. Just as you’re about to tell him that you know he’s being facetious, you notice that he’s been keeping his arms behind his back all the while. 

Eyes narrow suspiciously. “What do you have behind your back? You aren’t about to bludgeon me to death, are you?” 

His eyebrows crinkle up in innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”  


“Despite the circumstances of my sheltered upbringing, I’m not _that_ dumb, Iggy.” 

“Why, I never implied anything of the sort,” Ignis tuts before revealing his hand and a glossy white helmet that he holds by its chinstrap, “however, your lack of safety precautions might lead some to think otherwise.” 

"A _helmet_?" You snort, eyeing the bone-white thing with its perfectly clean visor and wishing you hadn’t pushed him to show you what he was hiding. "Only nerds wear helmets." 

Ignis is positively unamused. "People who care for their own safety wear helmets." He firmly pushes the headgear into your hands. "And your health is more important than your image." 

With a defeated sigh, you relent and hold the white headgear under your arm. "Okay, okay.  Thank you, mother." 

"You're quite welcome." 

Uh-oh. He’s giving you an expectant look. He totally wants you to wear it right now. When the sunlight glints off of his lenses and he looks like a villain from your favorite anime, you know you shouldn’t argue. Grumbling all the while, you put the helmet on and dramatically flick the visor down. It’s not _too_ bad, if you’re being perfectly honest. A couple of decals and maybe you won’t look like a mothball ( _Ooh_ , maybe you can put the chocobo decal on it?). And the way Ignis smiles approvingly kinda makes wearing the damn thing worth it. 

Just as you’re starting to get used to the idea of wearing the dorky headgear and you’re growing accustomed to the added weight, you hear someone bellow from the convenience store, “Whoa! Nice helmet, nerd!” 

Ignis cuts his eyes to the bodyguard. “ _Gladio_.” 

Gladiolus grins good-naturedly, arms full of supplies and junk that he and Noct purchased from the shop. The prince has one of those small smiles on his face the second his eyes land on your helmet. Okay, that’s it! Just as you attempt to yank the damn thing off of your head, Ignis firmly places his hand down on the helmet, preventing you from taking it off. He even buckles the chinstrap for added measure. The small whine that leaves you has the prince’s strategist chuckling. 

“Hey, I didn’t mean anything bad by it, (y/n),” Gladio consoles, getting oddly serious for a moment before leaning forward, shifting the bags in his arms, and flicking your visor with a hard _thud!_ that almost makes you stumble. He grins, amber eyes glimmering. “You look pretty cute this way, anyway. The Safety Mage, huh?” 

“Shut it,” you grumble, rubbing your sleeve over the new smudge on the once-clean visor. Pro-tip: Leather doesn’t clean oil from plastic. 

“We headed out?” Prom asks, seeming to pop up out of nowhere and he shoots you what he probably thinks is a stealthy glance. 

“Yes. We really shouldn’t delay.” Ignis nods, popping the Regalia’s trunk so Gladio and Noct can put away their purchases. 

You swear you spot the bright packaging of a familiar brand of chips. This is confirmed when you hear Ignis’ disappointed sigh and grumblings about saturated fats. All the while, Prompto looks like he wants to say something to you. Not one for confrontation, you don’t make the first move. Neither does he. 

“ _Cold war,”_ you brood uneasily. 

You’re shocked by how quiet Choco Jr. is when you start him up and you feel like you’re in a dream when you hit the road and your eardrums aren’t assaulted by the sounds of a slowly and painfully dying engine. Tires glide smoothly down the road and you find that you don’t have to constantly jerk the handlebars to keep the moped going straight. The next time you see Cindy, you’re gonna have to thank her properly. 

From way up ahead, you spot Prompto sitting up out of his seat and twisting around, cornflower blue eyes locked on you. He cups his hands around his mouth and just starts yelling. Is he...? He looks like he's trying to _talk_ to you, yelling over the wind in vain, blond eyebrows knitted together. You squint in surprise that he would even try to do something so dumb, I mean can't he talk to you at the next rest stop if it’s that important? What doesn't surprise you is when Gladiolus  takes his great big paw of a hand, slaps it over Prompto's face, and forces the blond to sit back in his seat. 

You snort. 

Galdin Quay is a vision. The water is such a pure blue and the beaches are so clean that you realize the little sliver of blue that you could _just_ make out from the window in your mother’s office doesn’t do the place any justice. You excuse yourself from the others to go and examine the local flora, making them swear to come get you before they head off. Noct gently teases that they couldn’t leave you behind even if they wanted to. 

“Perfect,” you whisper to yourself, having found a bit of scrap metal while getting up close and personal with the grass. You had been looking for herbs or something to make a potion, but didn’t have much luck on that front. 

When Gladio finds you sprawled on your stomach, picking through grass, he laughs. You hop up with a start, looking around the big guy for the others. Noticing your confusion, the Shield explains, “Ferry’s out. We need to go find some sort of ore for a guy and...” He sighs, clearly irritated, “Y’know? It’s this whole thing. C’mon, Magey, get your ass on that dorky scooter of yours. Time to hit the road again.” 

“ _And off we go. Again. Not to Altissia.”_

You’re trying not to feel bitter and like you’re being jerked around. But the hunt for “some ore” turns into a moment for everyone to see the limits of your adventurousness. It was just a quick little trip down the road and a small hike up to a clifftop. Some totally normal stuff. Completely boring stuff... And you have absolutely _no_ freakin’ clue how nobody spotted the giant damn bird sleeping in the exact spot you all needed to search for _some ore_. How could no one see something large enough to swallow someone whole? 

Sure, the bird is beautiful and you shakily bring your phone up to take a photo, nearly dying on the spot when your flash goes off and Gladio turns to you with a face of stone- silently damning you and calling you a tourist a million times over in his head. Luckily for you, the bird is dead to the world. Or so you think. 

As the others sneak by the slumbering bird, you’re frozen to the spot, pressed so hard against the cliffside that you swear you’ll become one with the rock. It takes you what feels like ages to build up the nerve to follow on your hands and knees, swearing to Ramuh that he’d better have your back if things go south. And maybe he listens. Because when the bird inevitably awakens on your trip back, ore in hand, (you swear it’s Prompto’s constant freaking out that does the trick) you just barely miss getting hip-checked by one of its massive wings. 

The gust of wind that whooshes from the bird’s impossibly large black wings has your jacket flipping up and over your head. You’re blindly fumbling for your staff, swears falling from your lips in panic, as the behemoth lets out an eardrum-shattering cry. You’re dead. You’re _so_ dead! But suddenly your jacket is pulled back down and you’re able to see again. Amber eyes twinkle down at you and you just _know_ the bodyguard is having a hell of a time not laughing at you. 

“It flew off already, killer.” 

You’re grateful that you ride alone on the moped back to Galdin Quay. Able to simmer in humiliation in silence because you’d been _so sure_ that you were about to get eaten by a giant bird... you’d even been yelling, “Don’t you _dare_ eat me you giant, feathery asshole, or I’ll make you explode from the inside out!” when Gladio came to your rescue. The bodyguard occasionally  glances at you from the backseat of the Regalia, eyes full of mirth, and you almost wish the bird had eaten you. 

Back in Galdin Quay, Noct hands over the ore to his contact while you stay in the restaurant, asking the chef, Coctura, where she studied and if she’s familiar with any of the cooks back in the Spire since you remember hearing them say her name; just making friendly chit chat in general since you’re so accustomed to chatting up cooks. Talking to her evokes a comforting familiarity that makes your mindless chatter easy and you have her laughing at lame jokes before you know it. Somehow you all end up with a room (you nearly have a stroke when you see a room is _10,000 gil_ ) and when she hears you’re staying, Coctura promises to make you a wonderful breakfast to see you off on your trip. 

As you make to enter the hotel room, someone grabs your shoulder and pulls you back. “Hey, (y/n).” Prompto gives you an unsure smile. “Can we, uh, talk for a second?” 

You glance back at the others who are hilariously bad at pretending not to notice this little conversation unfurling before turning back to Prom and shrugging. “Yeah. Sure.” 

Prompto takes you aside to one of the docks where the two of you stand in silence for a while. Tension slowly builds in your gut, so you opt to look out at the dark water, pretending to enjoy the scenery even though you’re internally freaking out. You swear he’s angry. You’re absolutely positive that you’re in for a tongue-lashing from perhaps the nicest member of Noct’s entourage. And all you did was flirt! 

“About earlier, with Cindy...” Prompto starts but stops. You look at him but he doesn’t look at you. 

“Mmhm?” 

“What was that about?” 

Eyebrows rise on instinct when you notice how red his ears are. “Innocent praise bordering on flirtation.” It comes out so robotic. He looks shocked by how blunt you are. “What? Do you have a thing for her? Can’t say I blame you. She’s skilled and attractive. Very dedicated to her craft, too. Those are all very appealing traits.” 

Okay, pause. The problem here is that you have a very hard time picking up on subtle cues that bely anything _other than_ malicious intent. After you turned thirteen you practically grew up walking on eggshells since you were then in the age range of the youngest students to be allowed entry into the Spire (aged fifteen to nineteen), so some of the bruisers saw you as “fair game” for their misdirected ire because apparently turning thirteen means you can take (and totally deserve) a punch. What is logic? 

With this in mind, you can only perceive the flush in Prompto’s skin, the fact that he pulled you aside for a dreaded one-on-one chat, and his reluctance to make eye-contact to mean that he’s angry with you. Just angry, nothing else. An unfortunate consequence of growing up surrounded by mages-in-training with inferiority complexes exacerbated by having to “compete” with a kid who _an entire kingdom_ recognizes as one of the _only_ “real” mages on the planet. 

But Prompto doesn’t know this. He’s not privy to the bizarre nuances of your upbringing despite having poured over biographies that were largely built on fiction, since not a single one of those “authors” actually interviewed _you_ but instead got their information from Spire grads who just passed you in the halls or had a class with you. In fact, you only had three visitors in the Spire. An aunt who later died in service to King Regis, a weird “uncle” who visited once every few years, and the Oracle... a story for another time. 

“Well, I _do_ , but I’m not ma-” Prompto stammers, taken off-guard by how you speak almost rapid- fire.  He thinks you’re being defensive, that he hurt your feelings, but in reality you’re quickly trying to defuse what you think is a confrontation. It’s a war between two awkward fools who fear losing a friend. 

“Say no more.” You wave a hand dismissively and Prom furrows his brow. This isn’t going anything like how he wanted. “If we ever see her again, I’ll refrain from being so forward and the ball will be in her court, as the kids say.” 

“Kids don’t say that,” he murmurs. 

“No harm no foul?” 

The blond squints at you, wondering if you’re about to say “How do you do, fellow kids?” since you’re so damn awkward it should be a crime. Instead of saying this, Prom merely replies at great length, “That’s... okay.” 

In your haste to put an end to this conversation, you throw the sharpshooter a strained smile, pat him awkwardly on the shoulder, and head back to the hotel room, swearing to never harmlessly flirt with anyone in front of Prompto again lest you have a repeat of this tragic episode- or to at least check and see if he’s crushing on the victim of your charm beforehand. And Prompto swears to never corner you again. 

Well, he swears to himself that if he ever needs to talk to you alone again he won’t let his nerves get the best of him. Because now he’s very much aware of how awkward you are, despite your cool and somewhat haughty exterior. It’s somewhat of a relief to him since he thought you were a bit unapproachable at times. When he follows you to the hotel room, he’s smiling and doesn’t feel nearly as bad as before. Hell, he’s even glad that Gladio stopped his yelling to you that you two “needed to have a serious talk.” That only would’ve made things worse. Obviously. 

“Hey every- Ow!” The second you open the door to the hotel room, a bag of chips hits you square in the chest. 

“Shit! Sorry! I thought you were Prompto.” Gladio winces. “You really need to work on your reflexes, (y/n).” 

“Or you can just not assault me with potato chips in the future, Gladio,” you murmur, bending down and swiping up the bag that’s now most likely full of broken chips. 

“ _Or_ you can train with me sometime,” Gladio counters, giving you a completely serious look from his place on the couch. “I’ll get your reflexes up to snuff in no time.” 

“My reflexes are fine,” you grumble under his simmering gaze. “I just wasn’t expecting to get nailed-” his lips twitch and you quickly finish, “with a bag of chips.” 

“ _Okay what the hell is this?”_ You wonder, feeling suddenly tense. Did you do something to offend him? Six, you’re just on a roll today with upsetting these guys. 

“Would anyone care for room service?” Ignis inquires, flipping through a menu as he lounges on one of the couches. He’s obviously trying to put the issue to bed before you can get anymore irritated. 

“Not at _those_ prices,” you snort, ripping open the bag of chips and popping one in your mouth. 

Prompto reaches over your shoulder from behind and grabs a handful for himself before asking, “Isn’t Coctura making you breakfast?” 

That gets Noct’s attention. The prince frowns and complains from his sprawled position on the other couch, “What? She’s only making breakfast for (y/n)?” 

Gladio’s mood seems to further darken as he snorts, side-eyeing you like you’re something he found on the bottom of his boot, “Uh-huh. Heard her say it herself. (y/n)’s a bit of a ladykiller.” 

With a dramatic roll of your eyes, you throw yourself down on the couch between Ignis and Gladio. “I’m no such thing. I just know how to _talk_ to people.” You swear you hear Ignis snort next to you. Even Prompto is biting his lip, cheeks dimpling as he struggles to keep his laughter in. Well, that’s two of the four who know you have the social skills of a toad. “ _Anyway_ ,” you grumble, “we should all get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us.” 

“Food first,” Noct argues, sitting up so Prompto can finally sit down. “I’m _starving_.” 

The others agree even as Gladio steals chips from the bag in your lap. After a moment you put the bag between the two of you when you start to feel a little awkward about the bag placement. You and Gladio fill up on chips so you two end up splitting a dish and mercifully cutting down the total cost of the meal, which comes out to a small fortune. It’s as you’re popping a bit of grilled fish in your mouth that Noct goes in for the kill. 

“Hey, (y/n),” blue eyes watch you mischievously from beneath dark bangs, “do all mages have a fear of being eaten alive by birds?” 

The fish gets lodged in your throat and it takes Ignis firmly patting your back for you to come back from the brink of death. “ _What?_ ” You gasp, voice gravelly from your near-death experience. 

“For someone who can turn a dualhorn into a well-done steak, you sure did scream a lot when the bird took off,” Noct continues his teasing and you try to melt into the couch. 

“Yeah,” Gladio laughs, his smirk directed at you like a homing missile, “they sure do have a set of lungs on ‘em, huh? Didn’t know they could get so loud.” 

“ _It’s a direct hit!”_

The night ends with everyone taking their jabs at you. Even Ignis joins in on the “fun,” saying that he thought you were casting some sort of curse until he saw you with your jacket over your head. Prompto reveals that he actually got that moment on camera, and you excuse yourself for bed, unable to look anyone in the eye. 

Tragedy hits when you least expect it. It seems to have a habit of doing that. 

When you stumble out of the Quayside Cradle and into the open air of the restaurant, you immediately notice the eerie, heavy silence that isn’t from the early hour. Coctura is slumped forward with her back to you, the faint sound of a smart, tinny voice speaking out into the dead air, the smell of something burning reaching your nose. The voice from her phone is sombre and matter-of-fact, it reminds you of the time Drusa took you aside to tell you Magister Illara, a woman older than your grandfather, had died in her sleep. It fills your stomach with dread but you tell yourself that you’re overreacting. 

“Coctura? Is everything okay?” You sniff. “Something’s burning.” 

The chef whips around, face tear-streaked and eyes cloudy. Your stomach sinks. Coctura’s lips tremble as she speaks, “Oh... (y/n). You’re awake. I’d always heard you mages liked getting up  b-bright and early.” She’s trying so hard to sound chipper but it fails. “I was just, um, prepping.” She quickly turns away to scrape the burned thing off of the stovetop. 

Alarm sets your teeth on edge and you slowly close the distance between the two of you, the countertop feeling too cold beneath your palms. “What’s happened?” 

“Insomnia-” She can’t get the rest out before breaking down into sobs, one hand coming up to cover her mouth, a futile effort to stifle the noise. 

The Empire’s attack on Insomnia leaves you feeling empty. It’s difficult for you to properly mourn over a city and people you’d never met, to mourn beside the others who actually lost people they’d known all their lives. Especially Noct and Gladio. Six, _especially them_.  You feel like an imposter with your tears, so you hide them away- hide your face behind a mug of coffee, behind the Iovita grimoire, behind anything you can get your hands on. You hide until plans are made to go see Insomnia for yourselves. It’s when you’re planning the trip to the Crown City that you get the call. 

“(y/n),” Drusa breathes into the phone, sounding relieved, “you’re all right. Good.” 

“Yes,” you purse your lips, under the scrutinizing gaze of Gladio who is immediately wary when you give your phone a weird look, “what is it?” 

“You need to come back to the Spire this instant.” 

Eyes roll at the drama of it all, probably your mother’s doing, and you reply, “Fine. I need to pick some things up, anyway, and Noc-” 

“Don’t bring the prince,” her voice is so low now you can barely even hear her. Then she raises it, a maternal edge to her tone, “Now, enough daemon hunting, (y/n). You’ve had your fun. It’s time to be serious. You’re needed here immediately.” She hangs up before you can ask her what she’s going on about. 

“ _What the hell was that?”_

Gladio is looking at you expectantly but you don’t address him. After you tuck your phone away, you turn to address Noct. He’s been quiet ever since Ignis broke the news to him (you hadn’t told anyone that you knew beforehand from Coctura). He sits away from the others in the hotel room. “Noct-” 

“ _Don’t,_ ” he hisses from between his teeth and you look away. He hasn’t wanted anyone to talk to him since the news broke, either. Already tired of the couple of sympathetic looks thrown his way by the others. 

“I’m going back to the Spire,” you announce.  


His eyes burn you like fire and you glance over to find him glaring, just as you suspected. “So,  that’s it, huh? Insomnia _supposedly_ falls and you-” 

“Have a little faith,” you spit with too much venom than intended. “I’m _needed_ back at the Spire. My mother probably just wants to make sure I’m okay and I need to pick some things up anyway. It’ll make our journey a bit easier.” 

“We’ll go with you then,” Gladio insists, brow creased with worry. “It’ll be quick. Then we’ll go to Insomnia.” 

You give the big guy a kind smile but admit, “I’d rather you didn’t.” 

“Why not?” Noct queries, sounding accusatory. 

“If the news is legitimate... The Spire has eyes and ears everywhere and not everyone is sympathetic to your cause. Some students hail from places other than Lucis.” At Noct’s narrowed eyes you huff, “Don’t look at me like that. The Spire takes anyone who can pay. It’s not _my_ fault.” 

Ignis hums and nods his head determinedly, “We’ll go with you but we won’t enter the Spire. You must make the trip a quick one, (y/n). Time is of the essence.” 

You’re surprised that they’re even willing to take this detour with you. But you won’t have it. You won’t keep them all in suspense while you go deal with your mother’s overbearing tendencies. “No. When we get to the fork in the road, I’ll be headed west and you four need to be headed east. If anything happens, we’ll just meet up at Hammerhead. Noctis has my number if things go south.” And with that, you’re off. Unaware of just how deeply the attack on the Crown City affects you. 


	11. 05. Frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst. Sorry, y’all. All Spire stuff.
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Angst Angst Angst, Cliché AF, More ~History~

** 05\. Frost  **

When you get right down to it, in all twenty years of your life there have only been two people that you could ever really talk to: Drusa and your mother. But over the years you became more and more engrossed with your increasingly rigorous studies and your mother became less and less available for you to talk to. You resorted to using Drusa as a go-between most of the time or just texts and brief calls since that was the only way you could get your mother’s attention without feeling like you were imposing. So, the fact that Drusa called you to the Spire rather than your mother didn’t immediately raise any red flags. 

The guards let you in immediately, not needing to see identification because everyone and their grandma knows who you are here. And you _hate_ that you’re darkening the Spire’s doorstep so soon. Craning your neck, you take in the building’s harsh angles and thin windows with distaste. For a moment, you wish you’d brought the others along. They might’ve made the visit enjoyable if only to have them all realize they needed to hike up _fifteen flights of steps_ to your mother’s office (a punishment in itself when you were sent off to her for a reprimand). 

As it stands, your solo visit already has you in the throes of typical drab Spire life the second the massive wooden doors shut behind you with a thud of ominous finality, bathing you in dim  
light. The musk of incense lingers in the air and you vaguely wonder who was praying. It doesn’t take much effort walking up all those steps to get to your room- it’s like you never missed a day here. And when you shoulder open that familiar wooden door (you can still see the sloppily carved “(Y/N) ONLY” right above the handle that the workers tried sanding out) you’re immediately met with the scowling faces of your ancestors. 

Six, you didn’t miss this. 

Waking up and going to sleep every day with them staring down at you from every wall. No band or movie posters for you. Oh, no! You grew up with what _every_ kid wanted: Nine paintings of dead people you’d never met. It’s a little funny, though, because none of them even look related to each other and you bear no resemblance to a single one. A strange thing with Iovitas, really. Your grandfather was a small, lithe, dark man with eyes like two newly minted copper coins. But your mother and aunt? Statuesque, pale, silver-eyed, and white-haired carbon copies with no resemblance to their father. And the tradition continues with you. What is genetics? The Iovitas never seemed tied to natural laws. 

But your aunt inherited your grandfather's sharp tongue and disregard for others. That thing the Iovitas passed down along with their magic: A strange, cold cruelty. A bizarre trait to have, given their penchant for helping others and especially of serving the Lucian kingdom. And your aunt served the kingdom just like all the others before her. She wanted nothing to do with the Spire  because of its history, unwilling to join her father’s inherited task of changing the college’s future. 

"Who protects the protectors, (y/n)?" She'd asked you at dinner, looking proud in her Crownsguard attire. Tacitus wouldn't give her his blessing to join the Glaives. 

You were only five, so you didn’t know that she was trying to make a point to your mother. Lysandra had no qualms about using you as ammunition against her twin. "We do," you’d answered dutifully. 

She'd smiled at that, she always had a smile for you even when she was needling the Spire mages. She pointed an almost gloating smirk at your mother while your grandfather quietly ate. It was just the four of you in the massive dining hall. The magisters were all off doing their duty even though it was dinner time. But Lysa always made a scene when she came by; threatening to turn every last magister to stone until your grandfather sent them all away. They ate in their rooms on Lysa Days. You can’t remember what you were eating, though. Something good. It was always something good in the Spire. You struggle to recall it now as you stare at the photo of your aunt on your desk, decked out in her beloved Crownsguard getup, that typical haughty smirk on her lips, staff in hand. 

But you remember asking her, "Who protects _us_ , Aunt Lysa?"  


"You _won't_ need protecting if you _don't_ become a complacent figurehead like your mother or  grandfather, little one,” she’d sneered. 

"Lysandra," your grandfather scolded, eyes like molten copper. His voice was so thunderous for such a small man. 

You suppose in the end Aunt Lysa needed protection after all. She died later that same year and your grandfather quickly followed. You missed what they brought to the Spire- those hard edges that could make the magisters wince and cower without even having to say a word. Then Uncle Ary started coming around. He was something new, full of an acidic wit that you strove to imitate. But you knew he wasn’t really your uncle. No, it wasn’t that he looked nothing like you- that would’ve actually made a stronger case _for_ him being related to you. No. It was something else. It was in the way he spoke to you. And your mother denied him, as well. 

“Gods, I haven’t seen that man in... five years, now?” You exclaim to yourself, turning away from your aunt’s photo and getting back to your original purpose for even coming back to this hellhole. Turning away from the thought of _him_. 

After you collect Drusa’s book from under your bed and some items from your room, you start to notice a few things that don’t quite jibe. You were so preoccupied with your thoughts and with your goal of ducking in and out that you hadn’t noticed it before. The halls are eerily silent and an atmosphere of dread hangs over the Spire. Come to think of it, no one looked at you when you passed them on your way up here. They didn’t even say hello... hell they didn’t even _sneer_. Fingertips glide across the ashy stones of the long hallway that your bedroom shares with your mother’s and the other magisters’ quarters. The bronze braziers remain even though the entire building was wired for electricity long ago. 

“It’s for that old-world mage aesthetic,” Drusa had laughed when you’d asked why the useless things remained, always there for you to bump into when you had your nose in a book. 

Sometimes, when you were bored, you’d light the one next to your door only for your mother to snap her fingers and have the flame snuffed out. You stop by your mother’s room and gently knock on the elegant wooden door. When she doesn’t answer, you let yourself in. The bed is made as expected, crisp white sheets tucked and charcoal pillows fluffed, the lavender duvet  turned down. Something doesn’t sit right. You notice a fine layer of dust on the many bookshelves that line the walls. She doesn’t allow the maids in her room when she’s out of the Spire. This room hasn’t been touched in days. You recall the urgency in Drusa’s voice. 

A cold, cruel creature grips your heart in its spindly little fingers. 

Your mother’s bed is so soft as you sit heavily on it, even as the world seems to fall out from under you. There’s something _wrong_. You can _feel it_. You send a text, telling her that you’re in her room and that her collection of pressed flowers is _very_ interesting and surprisingly _delicate_ (something sure to get her here in a hurry), and you wait. And wait. You take a breath, put your phone away, and close your eyes. 

From the moment you could walk you were practically your mother’s shadow when she wasn’t off consulting with King Regis. You’d follow her around everywhere in the Spire, get into all sorts of trouble when your grandfather wasn’t having you tailed by maids and his least favorite magisters (his favorite form of punishment for them). After your grandfather died your mother went from a magister to Arch-Mage of the Spire, on top of being King Regis’ arcane advisor. Her time became even more limited than before, she got short with you in her fatigue, she became so focused on your future that you felt like she stopped seeing you in the present. 

Naturally, _inevitably_ , you two grew apart. The arguments between the two of you became more frequent. You resented your confinement- resented _her_. You didn’t know how much that hurt her. How much she regretted the time she lost with you. All you can feel now is the deep, aching regret that claws in your chest; tries to rip its way out. But you remain impassive as you hear the news. You know it the second you burst into her office only to find _him_ sitting there. 

The irony isn’t lost on you. It was just the other day when Prompto, in an effort to get to know you better, asked you who your least favorite teacher was. In truth he wanted you to loosen up, to not speak so formally about the Spire all the time like it was a prison. He didn’t know any better. You’d answered instantly: “Talmudge.” Talmudge was and is someone who gets a power- high from being able to boss around people who have no choice but to follow his orders. You swear he got off on humiliating you in front of your peers. And when you’d complain to Drusa? He was such a sniveling suck up, so falsely apologetic, that after a while just the mentioning of his name was enough to churn your stomach. And the kicker? He was your mother’s second-in-command based on seniority. 

It feels like that conversation with Prompto happened a century ago. You feel like you were younger even though it was maybe two days ago when you jumped at the opportunity to smear Talmudge’s name. You watch blankly as Magister- no, _Arch-Mage_ Talmudge tells you that your mother went to the Crown City on _your_ behalf to speak to the king. That she hadn’t been heard from since the attack. That her death was just confirmed in the latest announcement of high-profile casualties before you arrived. 

“She became worried when you didn’t arrive at Insomnia to meet the prince.” As you stand to attention in the office, hands clasped behind your back, all you can hear is that thinly veiled insinuation: She only died because of _you_. When you vocalize this, tone so full of acid that Talmudge flinches, he hastens to say otherwise. “No! No! Oh, (y/n), please...” the old man shakes his head slowly, honey brown eyes watching you carefully, not an ounce of remorse in them even though he’s playing up the crocodile tears, waving about a handkerchief that costs a Spire maid’s hourly wage. “(y/n), she was going to visit His Majesty for a scheduled meeting that he had previously canceled. There was an important matter for her to consult him on before the treaty signing. She was going to visit even if you hadn’t got sidetracked by the sights.” 

“Oh,” you murmur, brow furrowing at that comment, “I see.” 

“(y/n), you have our deepest sympathies. Please know that you are welcome back here at the Spire as a magister.” Talmudge nods sagely, speaking with the authority of the Spire now. He reclines in your mother’s chair, looking so out of place in the spartan office with his opulent robes of crushed purple velvet and silver. 

Your eyes cut to him sharply. “What?” 

“Well,” the octogenarian places his hands gently on your mother’s desk, his bony fingers decorated with far too many enchanted rings that you’re positive the effects of a couple of them actually negate each other, “as the prince is among the victims-” 

Ice replaces your blood. Wait. Your mother didn’t tell him that you’ve been with Noctis this entire time? He _did_ just say your mother claimed to be worried about you not meeting Noct in Insomnia... Why would she hide this from the guy who was largely in charge of seeing to your transition from the Spire to the Crown City (though he certainly _botched_ it and only gave you a backpack and brief rundown on Crown City customs while he engrossed himself in the bureaucratic red tape on the back end)? Then you think back to Drusa’s phone call. How she’d said you were daemon hunting and not fulfilling your duties... 

_“Something’s going on here.”_

“I won’t be coming back to the Spire for work,” you interrupt with a painfully pleasant smile. “Thank you for the offer.” 

“(y/n),” Talmudge says firmly, as if scolding a child. Gods, he even wags a skeletal finger at you and you swear the damn bejeweled ring is liable to go flying off. Six save him if it hits you. “Your place is here. Your family fought for control of the Spire. Think of their legacy!” 

Something a bit defiant in you stirs at his words. Your mother liked to say it’s how you take after your father. You snort, “And you opposed my mother’s succession of my grandfather as Arch- Mage, if I remember correctly.” 

His cheeks color splotchily. “Nepotism has no place in academia.” 

“Right. Which is why you’re not offering me control of the Spire, despite how _my_ family fought for it.” Arms cross over your chest, falling out of that respectful pose with ease. “And how long did you practice that line, I wonder? _Nepotism_ , huh? Didn’t know you knew any big words.” 

“(y/n).” 

“You know, saying my name several times doesn’t work as a banishing spell. You won’t send me away like that.” You snark, looking down your nose at him, “Besides, it’s not like you’re _actually_ a mage-” 

“Enough.” The old man’s chest heaves, eyes wide. Because he’s been given respect without question for so long, he can’t handle your jeering for the life of him. “You dare treat me this way? After all I’ve done for you? I practically raised you, you insolent child!” 

“ _After all you’ve done? That’s exactly why I’m treating you like this!”_ You internally fume at how he continues to play innocent, even when you two are alone. 

When it was convenient for them, _several_ magisters acted friendly towards you. At one point your bed was covered in all manner of toys and trinkets when tenure was being considered. From an early age you learned what a parasite in human skin looked like- how it walked, how it talked, how it approached you. They roamed the halls and hounded your steps, made you feel like an outsider when you didn’t eat out of their hand. Made you feel low when you wouldn’t be played. 

And Talmudge is one of the biggest parasites. Your grandfather- though you knew the senior Iovita was a complete asshole- hated Talmudge with a passion and he had good reason. But simply not liking the guy wasn’t grounds enough to have him fired. 

Talmudge can be an ass-kisser to the highest degree when necessary, but his hatred for your family has never been a huge secret. In fact, a solid third of the magisters revile the Iovitas and they certainly loved taking their ire out on the low-hanging fruit: You. A kid. When the Iovitas took over the Spire, it was a much contested transition of power. Your great great grandmother Aela didn’t go through the proper channels to become Arch-Mage. She didn’t study at the Spire, she had no formal education or credentials, she didn’t take it over as a college... she it took over as a _statement_. 

For years the Iovitas were dogged by the aristocratic mages running the Spire. Your family faced slander and persecution because their very existence undermined the Spire’s authority as an institution for “mages.” How could the Spire claim to teach and train mages? Claim that only a Spire education was what made someone a mage? How could they have this authority when people like the Iovitas, who had no affiliation with the Spire, called Lucis home? Simple answer: They couldn’t. Not when the people of Lucis idolized the Iovitas- idolized that family that killed daemons to protect the common man, that came out of hiding despite the threat of the Spire to go and make a pilgrimage to the King of Lucis, to kiss the Ring of Lucii and bless it. 

The Spire was a blight in the eyes of the people, a symbol of what they called the threat of “magocracy,” up until Aela the Banisher walked up those fifteen flights of steps unimpeded and sent Arch-Mage Cyrus falling to his death. She had the King of Lucis’ backing, though her methods were certainly frowned upon even though Arch-Mage Cyrus was believed to have been the one behind the assassination of Aela’s youngest child. Even now, those old-regime Spire purists who come from a long lineage of Spire-trained mages have fought to have the Iovitas’ control over the college revoked. They ignore the fact that having an Iovita at the helm greatly improved the college’s image to the common man all around Eos. 

Since Aela’s reign, enrollment has always been at capacity and the donors consistently come out in droves- the Iovita name serving to legitimize the college as an institution for mages. Your great grandfather, who was much favored by the people, even implemented a scholarship program to allow those without funds and possessing great skill to come and learn at the prestigious college. However, the image of the Spire as a dying institution has always hanged overhead like a storm cloud despite the prosperity. Why? Well, although the Iovitas are praised by the everyday Joe, the everyday Joe isn’t nearly dumb enough to conflate “Iovita mage” with “Spire mage.” 

So, with this in mind, you’re feeling a bit smug. Because you can just tell by the look in Talmudge’s eye that he _hates you so much_ that he wants you _ousted_... but he’s backed in a corner because he _needs_ your name or else the Spire will go under the moment you turn your back on it and make it known that the Iovitas are no longer affiliated with the college. But right now you’re drained and you don’t trust him not to try something stupid if you mouth off- so consumed by envy as he is. You aren’t about to sit Talmudge’s ass down for a history lesson and threaten him with Cyrus’ fate and an empty college as his one-day “legacy” as Arch-Mage. You’re running on fumes, your sharp tongue being your last defense, and you just want to leave. 

You’re about to relent and throw a fib Talmudge’s way about you going back to your Iovita roots to become a daemon hunter full-time or some other nonsense, when he speaks.  “You’ll be safe from the Empire here, (y/n).” 

There’s an underlying threat in his words. He means to turn you in to the Empire if you refuse his _generous_ offer? You lift your chin and look down your nose at the bald man. “Why do I need to fear the _Empire_? They’re no threat to me.” 

Those honey eyes are trained on you and in their depths you detect a hint of something nefarious. “As an Iovita, surely you know how your very existence threatens many when you’re left unsupervised?” 

“Unsupervised,” you mimic, lips twitching into an ugly smirk. “My, my. You make me out to sound like an animal. Do you _want_ to see me become an animal, Talmudge?” 

The old man purses his lips and picks up the porcelain teapot that’s perched on the desk. He pours you a cup of tea and gently pushes it towards you, beckoning urgently for you to sit. You do so grudgingly, if only to hear why the hell you need to watch your back for the Empire now. As if you didn’t have enough on your plate? Talmudge seems to take you sitting as a sign that you’re going to roll over. He gets cocky, haughty, simpering out, “Let’s do away with the niceties, shall we? I must be blunt about this. You’ve always been the obstinate sort. Of course you’d never grow out of it. Your father was the worst sort of-” 

“Ah, see? We’re already _beyond_ niceties.” You swirl the tea with disdain before downing it and slamming the empty cup back down on the desk just to make the teapot rattle. “Something harder. I know my mother kept whiskey in one of the locked drawers in that desk.” 

Talmudge sighs, “Of course, dear.” 

Bile touches your tongue when he calls you that. You watch like a hawk as he fumbles with the drawer, knowing that the lock is finicky because you had botched picking it one too many times at the expense of the tumblers. You remember how your mother had called you into her office one evening, silver eyes hooded in bored disappointment, crystal glass of whiskey nestled in her  palm. Your mother was lounging on her high-backed chair, the soft lavenders and ashy grays of the austere room flickering with the warm light from the fireplace. She’d asked you in that cool, steely voice of hers why her key was sticking in the drawer’s lock. You’d shrugged and said you had no idea, face impassive, a hint of curiosity there just to throw her off the scent. 

But you knew she knew. And she knew you knew she knew. When she dismissed you with a sigh and a wave, you’d closed the door behind you and listened, pressing your ear to the heavy wooden door. A relieved smile reached your lips when you heard her laugh. 

As Talmudge pours the amber liquid into your cup, he hits a call button on the desk and says in a clipped tone, “Drusa. In here, please.” 

At first you think it’s going to be a relief to have the woman here with you, giving you a bit of strength to continue the conversation since your battery is quickly depleting. But oh, you’re _so_ wrong. The way the dark woman looks at you with her sorrowful garnet eyes makes the whiskey curdle in your gut. You keep the bottle tucked between your knees now so you can keep the alcohol flowing. Talmudge purses his thin lips but says nothing of it. 

So far you’ve compartmentalized your mother’s death. It’s far off and away, tucked into the furthest recess of your mind. But Drusa’s maternal presence is dragging it back to the forefront- gods, the two basically walked around the Spire as a unit; you half expect to see your mother at her side. Your throat tightens. You feel like a little child who’s about to cry- you’re six years old in the Crown City palace again, desperately wanting to hide behind your mother’s leg. You have to look away from Drusa. 

She knows you well enough to know why you won’t meet her eye. Drusa places a comforting hand on your shoulder, fingers tightening through the leather of your jacket, before explaining at Talmudge’s urging, “The Empire wants you to swear fealty to them, (y/n). The people of Lucis know that you’re still alive and that you were sworn to Prince Noctis. Your existence is a thorn in the Empire’s side.” 

_“What’s the term I’m looking for? Turncoat?”_ You think bitterly. 

“Why? Because a hermit mage who was sworn to the prince from birth is _such_ a threat or because Aela the Banisher spat at the emperor’s feet ages ago? Do they really hold grudges that long in Niflheim?” You ask flatly, staring down at the amber liquid in your teacup. “Wonder if my great great grandmother knew she’d be screwing me over with her theatrics.” 

“Aela the Usurper,” Talmudge corrects, tone polite. 

“The _Banisher_ ,” you snarl. “Don’t strip away her title just because you liked the way those stuffed shirts ran the Spire before she came around. Oh, I’m sure you’d _love_ it if this shithole could go back to the ‘good ol’ days’ of having people murdered for even looking at you wrong.” 

“We don’t have time for petty squabbling,” Drusa snaps and you aren’t sure if she’s fed up with you or the bastard sitting across from you. “(y/n), they’re offering you the position of the emperor’s Arch-Mage.” She’s pleading now. 

Stomach in knots, you realize that she actually fears for your life. “What? The emperor doesn’t _have_ an Arch-” 

“Your name is invaluable,” Talmudge says slowly, honey brown eyes calculating and unblinking like a snake. It’s unsettling. “They’ll let you live here in the Spire, they won’t come for you. You’ll get to live in peace save for a customary annual visit to see the emperor, like how your ancestors would go and pay their respects to the King of Lucis.” 

“So they want all the pomp and circumstance of the _infamous_ Iovitas after killing one of us? They want to keep up appearances to the Lucian people and show that if _I’m_ down with old what’s-his-face, they should be, too?” You can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s the whiskey. It’s certainly aged some since you last sneaked a sip... 

“Because of your magic, many believe that the Astrals are on your side,” Talmudge explains to you like you weren’t taught this by your grandfather. He sighs, “Decima wasn’t supposed to be in the Crown City. She was foolishly loyal to that man. She was collateral da-” 

Red is all you see. “Shut your fucking mouth,” you seethe, enunciating each word. Beside you, Drusa gasps. This almost undermines your anger, almost turns you into a little, apologetic child even as you’re an inch away from ripping Talmduge’s trachea out of his scrawny neck. 

“Hold your tongue, Iovita.” 

“Fuck you and fuck the fucking emperor!” You stand, try not to sway. Drusa keeps you steady. “He killed my mother, he killed my king,” you pause for breath and swallow hard, “and he killed my prince. My family has _always_ been loyal to the Kings of Lucis. I’m not about to break that tradition now to go kiss that _asshole’s_ boots after all he’s done.” 

Talmudge stands too. In his age, he’s not even taller than you with his stooped back. He’s trying so damn hard to look intimidating, leaning heavily on the staff that he can't even channel magic through. “You graduated from _this_ institution! _Our_ mages serve _these_ lands! The Empire rules _these_ -!” 

You throw your head back and laugh. The room spins like a top and for a second you think you spin with it. “You possess loyalty in spades, don’t you? Typical 'mage' making typical self- serving-” 

“Silence!” 

You were always submissive here. Even now, the Spire has a way of making you a different person- more bitter, more reserved. And when you lived here, every other word out of your mouth was “sir” and “ma’am” but it was all for your mother’s sake and your grandfather’s, too. Now both of them are dead. There’s no reason for you to kowtow to these people anymore. In your rage, you want to set the whole place on fire. And you can. You can turn this place into nothing more than a scorch mark on the face of the world- a _crater_ , even. Or... _Or_ a wonderful palace of ice frozen in time. It’s a bit poetic considering how antiquated this whole place is- left behind in history. You could make it a mausoleum of ice. You envision it for a moment, the frigid air, skin hard and cold, reveling in the- 

“(y/n)!” Drusa gasps, releasing your shoulder. 

You open your eyes with a start, not realizing you’d been slowly making ice encase your right arm like crystalline armor. Talmduge looks terrified. With a flex of your hand the ice shatters and disappears into little flurries. You take a breath, center yourself. Six, you haven’t lost control like this since you were a child. You can’t afford to make foolish mistakes. Not now. _Drusa_ still lives here and there’s too much on the line- too much that you need to do before you give in. Noct still needs you, now more than ever. And the others... 

“I’ll see myself out.” You duck your head, jaw clenched so hard it’s a miracle you can say anything at all. You turn and stride toward the door, wrenching it open and coming to a sudden halt. “Good day, _Arch-Mage_. You won’t be seeing me anytime soon. But when you do,” you look at the stooped old man over your shoulder, the parasite behind your mother’s desk, eyes hazy with liquor, “I can promise you, it won’t be for a social call.” 


	12. 06. Sly (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After this chapter, things start jumping around and this story stops following the game's storyline so closely. This chapter is kinda... sucky. Like big time. Still only with slight deviances in routes. That'll change, of course.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Fries Don’t Need That Much Ketchup, Botched Assassination, You’re So Drunk and Noct Wants to Talk, Awkward Prompto, Iggy Has Fallen for the Mage and He Can’t Get Up, Gladio’s Got You in His Sights, But Do You Notice?, Hell No, Put it on Your Tab

**06\. Sly**

**Noctis**

When the guys find you, you’re alone in a booth, eating fries that have been drowned in ketchup and drinking lukewarm soda. You look casual. Too casual. It doesn’t take them long to realize that you’ve carefully contrived an aura of indifference; lackadaisically scrolling through your phone, earbuds in, tapping your foot to the beat of a song that isn’t even playing. It’s immediately obvious to the observant likes of Ignis and Gladio that you’re piss drunk. There’s a slight sway to you, like you’re sitting in the middle of a windstorm, you can’t seem to keep your head still- bobbing it now and then like you’re listening to some funky beats. 

Hell, Prompto and Noct actually buy your whole “listening to music” act. But the older guys know better. And they’re on edge. Because you? Well, you’ve set a certain standard for yourself at this point. Though you’re an underhanded little troll, you carry yourself with an air of decorum like a blue blood. There’s a haughtiness in the way you walk and talk, chin always kept a little high, stoic gaze cast down your nose. You come across as learned, well-bred, and worldly though you’re a hermit. And for them to see you wasted? They know you’re hurting. 

Takka makes eye-contact with them and shakes his head, a silent warning to leave you alone. When you stumbled into the diner, soaked with rain and eyes bloodshot, the older man had been worried. What had worried him even _more_ were the little pops of electricity that lit up the air around you. When he’d shakily pointed it out, the light show immediately stopped and you gave him a pleasant smile before placing your order. He could smell the whiskey on your breath. And he definitely knew you were drunk when you tried to pay in pocket lint and Leiden pepper kernels. 

“Here’s a tip!” You’d urged and added a small feather that had caught your eye onto the pile of pepper and lint. 

“I’ll just wait for your friends to come around,” he’d said, eyes sad and smile strained. 

You’re staring at your phone, at the many texts you haven’t deleted. You’ve already listened to all of your mother’s voicemails at least once- chuckling softly to yourself at her especially chilly messages. You can’t bring yourself to delete them now. Slowly but surely, you’re sobering up. You’ve gotten trashed on enough vintage wine to know just what to eat to take the edge off (starchy foods always help you stave off some of the effects of alcohol). Slowly but surely, reality is setting in and you’re a bit beyond grief right now. You want revenge. 

“Hey, (y/n).” Noct slides into the booth across from you, unable or unwilling to take a hint from Takka. The others stay away, loitering in the doorway. You turn your hazy gaze onto the prince. Just from the sober look on his face, you know he wants to have a heavy conversation. But you can’t stomach that right now. The day has been too bleak- so bleak that you feel like you’ve been walking in a nightmare. 

“You can’t have any fries. Buy your own,” you snap before Noct can get another word out. “I know you have money, you little freeloader.” 

“Actually, you didn’t buy those, (y/n),” Takka calls from the his place behind the counter but you ignore him. He sighs and looks down at the pile of pepper on the countertop. After a moment, he picks some string out of it. 

The prince blinks in surprise at you and furrows his brow. “I wasn’t gonna ask for any.” 

Good. Your plan is working. The once concerned expression on his face is replaced with irritation. He’s probably thinking to himself: “Well, why _can’t_ I have any fries if I want any? I’ve given them enough of my food to at least earn _one_ ketchup-saturated fry.” Noct is already forgetting about the news. The Empire’s awful treachery is taking a backseat to your food treachery. Pettiness is getting in the way of grief. You just have to put one more nail in the coffin. 

“Iggy can have some, though.” 

Ignis gives you a strained smile from the doorway. “Thank you, (y/n).” 

Takka turns his gaze onto Ignis. “Are you gonna pay for their meal?” Ignis sighs and goes over to pay for his reckless friend, pulling out his wallet as he goes. When he gets to the counter, though, Takka tells him that he doesn’t _actually_ expect him to pay, but he just wants Ignis to keep an eye on you. “It’s on the house,” Takka murmurs lowly, warm brown eyes straying to you and the prince. “They need it.” 

Noct is starting to look like a petulant child, dark eyebrows knitted together, bottom lip slightly pouting out. He crosses his arms, hunches his posture a bit. “What? How come Specs can have some but I can’t?” 

You sip your soda and watch him from beneath your eyelashes, playing up the part of the asshole friend. “I thought you didn’t want any?” 

“Well, now that you’re being unfair-” He stops short when a fry smacks his forehead. Damn. Though you pride yourself on your near-perfect hand-eye coordination, you’re still a bit buzzed and thus didn’t expect to _actually_ hit the prince square in the forehead. You’re actually a bit pleased even as those steely blue eyes glare at you. 

“You should know better than anyone that sometimes life just isn’t fair.” Pushing the plate of fries toward him, you lean back in the booth and sigh. The room swims a bit. Guess the fries didn’t work all that well. “Not at all.” 

“(y/n)...” 

You wave your hand dismissively in the air, wave away his pitying tone. “But I’m happy that I can deprive you of _fries_ and make you forget just how unfair life can be. Because you’re so pissed about my cold-ass fries that you forgot.” You chuckle softly and shake your head before reaching forward and wiping the ketchup from Noct’s hair with a napkin. He blushes and you say, “Just for a second I was able to help you forget.” 

Noct huffs out a faint laugh, “So, whenever anything bad happens I can count on you to distract  me?” 

“You can count on me for more than that, Noct. I was sworn to you from birth and I swore myself to you again there,” you gesture out of the window, “in that parking lot. I’ll never let you down. _Never_.” 

“I’m...” Noct frowns, the day’s events coming back to him, “I’m sorry about your mom.” 

“You can make it up to me by helping me overthrow Arch-Mage Talmudge after I help you evict the Empire.” You eat a fry and grimace before adding salt. “And you can’t get mad if I throw him from the fifteenth floor window. It’s kind of a family tradition.” 

Noct pops a fry in his mouth and immediately gags. As he spits it out in a napkin, he flounders, “Wait. _Arch-Mage_? I thought _you_ were supposed to direct the Spire after your mom?” 

“Nepotism has no place in academia,” you mimic Talmudge’s frail voice but the jeer is lost on Noct. “So, I’m going to have to take back my family’s legacy the old way: With the King of Lucis’ backing and a boot up an old man’s flat ass... and preferably out of a window.” 

“You really want to throw him out of a window, huh?” The prince queries, raising one dark eyebrow at your incessant threats. 

“I feel like it would complete me, yes.” 

He sighs, staring at your plate of ketchup-drowned fries. Noct isn’t oblivious, he knows you don’t want to talk about your mother or what went down at the Spire. Hell, _you’re_ not even really sure what went down at the Spire. Leaving the college was a blur. You can’t even remember how you even got to Hammerhead, to be honest. One second you were leaving the office, you blink and you’re stuffing an obscene amount of junk in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, and then you’re killing your fries in ketchup. 

“ _It’s a miracle I’m not dead,”_ you think with a flip of your stomach.  


“Well,” Noct leans forward, elbows on the table, “we can start off on our road to revenge by  following up on a lead.” 

“What lead?” 

“The marshal, Cor the Immortal,” when he sees a hint of recognition in your glassy eyes, Noct continues, “he’s asked us to meet him at a nearby royal tomb.” 

You remember hearing about Cor Leonis. Cato didn’t shut up about him. Or he _wouldn’t_. You tried to tease him about his crush but it didn’t deter him in the slightest. Thus, you had to hear of Cor the Immortal’s exploits as you got beaten with a training sword. 

“We’re going to a tomb? Grave robbing? I’m game.” 

“(y/n), it’s not-” 

“We’re going into the ancient burial place of a Lucian king and you’re going to take something from said burial place, I’m assuming. Hm,” you stroke your chin in mock thought, “I’d say by any definition that’s grave robbing.” 

He sighs, “Fine.”  


You’re swaggering out of the diner on Noct’s heels before you know it, but you can feel the great,  looming presence of one Gladiolus Amicitia behind you all the while. It’s at this moment that you know he can smell the booze on you underneath the musty veil of grease and tangy ketchup. Gladio and Ignis exchange a look behind your back and you aren’t surprised in the least when you find yourself being steered away from Choco Jr. and toward the Regalia to be sandwiched between the prince and his Shield. At this point, Noct can detect the hint of alcohol on you now that you two are side by side. But he remains quiet. 

If he learned anything from his little talk with you in the diner, it’s that you _don’t_ want to talk right now. And he’s not about to push his luck. Besides, he knows that he was a little shit to you when the news of the attack first broke. He snapped at you and acted so hostile, even calling your loyalty into question. _Gods_ , he cringes just thinking about it. You’d been called to the Spire because your mother had been killed and he thought you were running off because Insomnia had fallen. He thought you were throwing in with the Empire because he was a losing bet. 

Noct wants to cover his face and groan when he realizes he made your leaving _all about him_. He made your loss center around him without even thinking about it. Stealthily, he glances at you. You’re staring straight ahead as Iggy drives. Occasionally you blink, but otherwise you’re stone. Internally, he marvels at how well you can hide your inebriation. Which starts him off on a long train of thought in which he wonders how much drinking you did back at the Spire to get so good at holding your liquor. And what the _hell_ kind of “supervision” were you under to be able to get your little grabby hands on booze? He’s a bit jealous that you were able to get away with something like that when he had Ignis on his back 24/7. 

“And here we are,” Ignis announces, pulling to the side of the highway to park the car. 

It’s daytime and you’re miserable. You’re stuck between two very strong compulsions: sleeping and puking. But _dammit_ , you’re an Iovita and you need to put on a proper face. A face that doesn’t say: “I’m still trashed and one wrong move away from projectile vomiting whiskey and fries all over everyone.” _Especially_ when you discover that you’re at the Hunter HQ. Like _hell_ are you going to spew your guts in front of a bunch of hardened daemon hunters. 

“You okay?” Prom asks at exactly the wrong moment.  


You cut your eyes to him and he yelps. “I’m fine,” you hiss. 

And you totally aren’t, because when you walk you feel like you’re walking around with your head in a fishbowl. Sounds are tinnier and more confusing. Lights are impossibly bright and dizzying. And when you five make your way out of the Hunter HQ and wind up fighting friggin’ _birds_? You get maybe one fireball fully formed for about a second before it sputters out into a pathetic fizzle. It’s time for you to tap out. You’re hunched over, hands splayed on the face of a cliff to keep yourself upright and retching as the guys valiantly fight the daggerquills to the tune of your horrendous and seemingly endless vomiting. After the battle is over, the blond sharpshooter comes running up to you. Then he thinks better of it and takes a few steps back. 

“Whoa! (y/n)! Are you sick? Did you get poisoned?” Prom frets, keeping a safe distance away from the splatter zone. 

Swinging your head around to glare daggers at him, you point out the obvious, “I’m freakin’ drunk!” 

Noct bites the inside of his cheek and prods at his best friend. “Did you honestly not even notice? (y/n) smells like a walking bottle of whiskey. I’m surprised they didn’t immediately burst into flames the second they got that pathetic fireball formed.” 

“ _Noctis, you turd!”_

Gladio hands you a canteen once you’ve finally emptied your stomach and you swish and spit. “Thanks,” you sigh, voice rough. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“Shall we continue?” Ignis queries, attempting to brush over the spectacle, ever the gentleman. 

“Let’s,” you grumble, straightening out your jacket and ambling onward. You have to admit, you _do_ feel better. It just would’ve been ideal to not blow chunks in front of everyone in order to feel this way. 

“Ah,” Ignis hums when you all come into view of a massive tomb made of white stone, “there it is.” 

Prom lets out a low whistle. “A tomb fit for royalty.” 

You have to admit, it’s pretty... for a _tomb_. A shock of white against brown stone and verdant grass, with what looks to be dark metal accentuating the curvature of the architecture. Your inner aesthete croons over the ancient fixture just as your stomach gurgles unpleasantly.  With a wince you grumble, “No sightseeing. Let’s just find the marshal.” At Noct’s teasing look, you whine, “ _Please_?” 

Inside the cool darkness of the tomb you’re all greeted by a stone of a man whom Ignis immediately greets with the kind of deference that’s customarily bestowed upon someone of Cor Leonis’ high military standing. Honestly, you’re just grateful that Iggy’s on his A-game when it comes to etiquette, because it takes those icy blue eyes snapping to you, narrowing in curiosity and suspicion, for you to introduce yourself. 

You duck your head in a quick cursory bow (and try not to groan when the backs of your eyes throb). “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m (y/n) Iovita, His Highness’ arcane advisor.” It feels a bit weird introducing yourself like that. But you _did_ swear yourself to Noct and he _did_ accept you, albeit with a phlegmatic “yeah.” Hardly a great tale, but a tale nonetheless. 

“You’re,” Cor’s eyes stray to your staff and soften, “(y/n) Iovita? Of course. I don’t know why I expected you to look like your mother.” 

Stomach twists painfully but you smile politely. “Should’ve known better.” 

There’s a strange tension in the tomb and it all seems to radiate from Noct. It’s at this moment that you realize he’s glaring at the Immortal. Wanting to be of some use as an advisor to the prince, you take a step forward to place a hand on his shoulder and- stomach gurgles. It seems to echo in the tomb. All eyes are on you. A strained smile reaches your lips as you pat the prince’s shoulder and announce, “I’ll be outside.” 

Sweet air fills your lungs the second you step outside. But you’re _miserable._ You feel like you’re running a fever, tempted to rip off your clothes this instant if it weren’t for all the people in the damn tomb behind you. Gods, is this alcohol poisoning? You _swear_ you got everything out of your system! But why are you suddenly feeling worse now that you’ve emptied your stomach? Patting down your pockets you retrieve an antidote from your inner pocket and bite your lip. These things are certainly expensive and you’re not even sure if you need to use- 

“Tea.”  


It hits you like a truck. Two glasses of whiskey doesn’t equal a trashed (y/n) Iovita and two  glasses have certainly never caused you to black out. You tally it in your head, making special note of your inability to handle your magic properly. Eyes close as you envision the scene before you... The large wooden desk covered in papers filled with your mother’s arcing handwriting, her collection of crystals on the lefthand side, the teapot on the right. Talmudge’s hands clasped on the table, rings glimmering. One tea cup. _One tea cup_. What color was the tea? Amber? That’s normal. That grimace on Talmudge’s face when you started drinking whiskey instead of tea, though... 

Eyes snap open just as you crush the antidote vial in your hand, purple wisps of magic filling your nostrils. Jaw clenches as your head clears and your stomach settles. The fever rushes away as you hiss, “That decrepit son of a bitch!” 

* * *

**Prompto**

When the guys find you, you’re alone in a booth, eating fries that have been drowned in ketchup and drinking lukewarm soda. You look casual. Too casual. It doesn’t take them long to realize that you’ve carefully contrived an aura of indifference; lackadaisically scrolling through your phone, earbuds in, tapping your foot to the beat of a song that isn’t even playing. It’s immediately obvious to the observant likes of Ignis and Gladio that you’re piss drunk. There’s a slight sway to you, like you’re sitting in the middle of a windstorm, you can’t seem to keep your head still- bobbing it now and then like you’re listening to some funky beats. 

Hell, Prompto and Noct actually buy your whole “listening to music” act. But the older guys know better. And they’re on edge. Because you? Well, you’ve set a certain standard for yourself at this point. Though you’re an underhanded little troll, you carry yourself with an air of decorum like a blue blood. There’s a haughtiness in the way you walk and talk, chin always kept a little high, stoic gaze cast down your nose. You come across as learned, well-bred, and worldly though you’re a hermit. And for them to see you wasted? They know you’re hurting. 

Takka makes eye-contact with them and shakes his head, a silent warning to leave you alone. When you stumbled into the diner, soaked with rain and eyes bloodshot, the older man had been worried. What had worried him even more were the little pops of electricity that lit up the air around you. When he’d shakily pointed it out, the light show immediately stopped and you gave him a pleasant smile before placing your order. He could smell the whiskey on your breath. And he definitely knew you were drunk when you tried to pay in pocket lint and Leiden pepper kernels. 

“Here’s a tip!” You’d urged and added a small feather that had caught your eye onto the pile of pepper and lint. 

“I’ll just wait for your friends to come around,” he’d said, eyes sad and smile strained. 

You’re staring at your phone, at the many texts you haven’t deleted. You’ve already listened to all of your mother’s voicemails at least once- chuckling softly to yourself at her especially chilly messages. You can’t bring yourself to delete them now. Slowly but surely, you’re sobering up. You’ve gotten trashed on enough vintage wine to know just what to eat to take the edge off (starchy foods always help you stave off some of the effects of alcohol). Slowly but surely, reality  is setting in and you’re a bit beyond grief right now. You want revenge. 

“Hey, (y/n).” Noct slides into the booth across from you, unable or unwilling to take a hint from Takka. The others stay away, loitering in the doorway though Prom looks like he wants more than anything to come to you. You turn your hazy gaze onto the prince. Just from the sober look on his face, you know he wants to have a heavy conversation. But you can’t stomach that right now. The day has been too bleak- so bleak that you feel like you’ve been walking in a nightmare. 

“You can’t have any fries. Buy your own,” you snap before Noct can get another word out. “I know you have money, you little freeloader.” 

“Actually, you didn’t buy those, (y/n),” Takka calls from the his place behind the counter but you ignore him. He sighs and looks down at the pile of pepper on the countertop. After a moment, he picks some string out of it. 

The prince blinks in surprise at you and furrows his brow. “I wasn’t gonna ask for any.” 

Good. Your plan is working. The once concerned expression on his face is replaced with irritation. He’s probably thinking to himself: “Well, why _can’t_ I have any fries if I want any? I’ve given them enough of my food to at least earn _one_ ketchup-saturated fry.” Noct is already forgetting about the news. The Empire’s awful treachery is taking a backseat to your food treachery. Pettiness is getting in the way of grief. You just have to put one more nail in the coffin. 

“Prompto can have some, though.”  


Prom smiles at you faintly from the doorway. “Heh. Thanks, (y/n).” 

Takka turns his gaze onto the blond. “Are you gonna pay for their meal?” The sharpshooter sighs and goes over to pay, patting down his pockets as he goes. When he gets to the counter, though, Takka tells him that he doesn’t _actually_ expect him to pay, but he just wants Prom to keep an eye on you. “It’s on the house,” Takka murmurs lowly, warm brown eyes straying to you and the prince. “They need it.” 

Noct is starting to look like a petulant child, dark eyebrows knitted together, bottom lip slightly pouting out. He crosses his arms, hunches his posture a bit. “What? How come Prompto can have some but I can’t?” 

You sip your soda and watch him from beneath your eyelashes, playing up the part of the asshole friend. “I thought you didn’t want any?” 

“Well, now that you’re being unfair-” He stops short when a fry smacks his forehead. Damn. Though you pride yourself on your near-perfect hand-eye coordination, you’re still a bit buzzed and thus didn’t expect to _actually_ hit the prince square in the forehead. You’re actually a bit pleased even as those steely blue eyes glare at you. 

“You should know better than anyone that sometimes life just isn’t fair.” Pushing the plate of fries toward him, you lean back in the booth and sigh. The room swims a bit. Guess the fries didn’t work all that well. “Not at all.” 

“(y/n)...” 

You wave your hand dismissively in the air, wave away his pitying tone. “But I’m happy that I can deprive you of _fries_ and make you forget just how unfair life can be. Because you’re so pissed about my cold-ass fries that you forgot.” You chuckle softly and shake your head, “Just for a second I was able to help you forget.” 

Noct huffs out a faint laugh, “So, whenever anything bad happens I can count on you to distract me?” 

“You can count on me for more than that, Noct. I was sworn to you from birth and I swore myself to you again there,” you gesture out of the window, “in that parking lot. I’ll never let you down. _Never_.” 

“I’m...” Noct frowns, the day’s events coming back to him, “I’m sorry about your mom.” 

“You can make it up to me by helping me overthrow Arch-Mage Talmudge after I help you evict the Empire.” You eat a fry and grimace before adding salt. “And you can’t get mad if I throw him from the fifteenth floor window. It’s kind of a family tradition.” 

Noct pops a fry in his mouth and immediately gags. As he spits it out in a napkin, he flounders, “Wait. _Arch-Mage_? I thought _you_ were supposed to direct the Spire after your mom?” 

“Nepotism has no place in academia,” you mimic Talmudge’s frail voice but the jeer is lost on Noct. “So, I’m going to have to take back my family’s legacy the old way: With the King of Lucis’ backing and a boot up an old man’s flat ass... and preferably out of a window.” 

“You really want to throw him out of a window, huh?” The prince queries, raising one dark eyebrow at your incessant threats. 

“I feel like it would complete me, yes.” 

He sighs, staring at your plate of ketchup-drowned fries. Noct isn’t oblivious, he knows you don’t want to talk about your mother or what went down at the Spire. Hell, _you’re_ not even really sure what went down at the Spire. Leaving the college was a blur. You can’t even remember how you even got to Hammerhead, to be honest. One second you were leaving the office, you blink and you’re stuffing an obscene amount of junk in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, and then you’re killing your fries in ketchup. 

“ _It’s a miracle I’m not dead,”_ you think with a flip of your stomach.  


“Well,” Noct leans forward, elbows on the table, “we can start off on our road to revenge by  following up on a lead.” 

“What lead?” 

“The marshal, Cor the Immortal,” when he sees a hint of recognition in your glassy eyes, Noct continues, “he’s asked us to meet him at a nearby royal tomb.” 

You remember hearing about Cor Leonis. Cato didn’t shut up about him. Or he _wouldn’t_. You tried to tease him about his crush but it didn’t deter him in the slightest. Thus, you had to hear of Cor the Immortal’s exploits as you got beaten with a training sword. 

“We’re going to a tomb? Grave robbing? I’m game.” 

“(y/n), it’s not-” 

“We’re going into the ancient burial place of a Lucian king and you’re going to take something from said burial place, I’m assuming. Hm,” you stroke your chin in mock thought, “I’d say by any definition that’s grave robbing.” 

He sighs, “Fine.” 

You’re swaggering out of the diner on Noct’s heels before you know it, but you can feel the great, looming presence of one Gladiolus Amicitia behind you all the while. It’s at this moment that you know he can smell the booze on you underneath the musty veil of grease and tangy ketchup. Gladio and Ignis exchange a look behind your back and you aren’t surprised in the least when you find yourself being steered away from Choco Jr. and toward the Regalia to be sandwiched between the prince and his Shield. 

And Prompto? Well, Prompto just can’t help himself. He knows you’re in a bad mood and he just _wants to make you feel better_. Every few minutes he’s twisting around in his seat to talk to you, flashing his pictures at you and asking for your input on filters. He even goes so far as to ask who you think he should take more pictures of. You immediately answer “you” without thinking, head throbbing but trying so damn hard not to snap at the jittery shutterbug. But, luckily for you, your answer is a blessing in disguise. 

The second you tell Prom that he should take more pictures of himself, he goes red in the face and stammers, “Y-Y-You wanna see more pictures of _me_?” His voice cracks on the last word and you hear Noct snort beside you. Prom continues, sounding abashed, “Isn’t that a little conceited?” 

“Nonsense,” you deadpan, “you’re the perfect subject.” 

Impossibly, he gets redder. “How- I mean, _what_? Why?” 

You blink slowly now, trying to relay that you’re annoyed but he’s too damn flustered to take a nonverbal hint. “You look good in every light,” is all that you can think to say, brain feeling like it’s being squeezed to death but dammit if you want to try and stay polite. Because this is _Prompto_. You can’t be mean to Prompto! 

“Oh.” He says it so softly, unable to meet your eye as he shrinks down in his seat and turns around. As you look at the back of his fluffy blond head, you can see that his neck and ears are dangerously red. 

“And here we are,” Ignis announces, pulling to the side of the highway to park the car. 

It’s daytime and you’re miserable. You’re stuck between two very strong compulsions: sleeping and puking. But _dammit_ , you’re an Iovita and you need to put on a proper face. A face that doesn’t say: “I’m still trashed and one wrong move away from projectile vomiting whiskey and fries all over everyone.” _Especially_ when you discover that you’re at the Hunter HQ. Like _hell_ are you going to spew your guts in front of a bunch of hardened daemon hunters. 

“You okay?” Prom asks at exactly the wrong moment.  


You cut your eyes to him and he yelps. “I’m fine,” you hiss. 

And you totally aren’t, because when you walk you feel like you’re walking around with your head in a fishbowl. Sounds are tinnier and more confusing. Lights are impossibly bright and dizzying. And when you five make your way out of the Hunter HQ and wind up fighting friggin’ _birds_? You get maybe one fireball fully formed for about a second before it sputters out into a pathetic fizzle. It’s time for you to tap out. You’re hunched over, hands splayed on the face of a cliff to keep yourself upright and retching as the guys valiantly fight the daggerquills to the tune of your horrendous and seemingly endless vomiting. After the battle is over, the blond sharpshooter comes running up to you. Then he thinks better of it and takes a few steps back. 

“Whoa! (y/n)! Are you sick? Did you get poisoned?” Prom frets, keeping a safe distance away from the splatter zone. 

Swinging your head around to glare daggers at him, you point out the obvious, “I’m freakin’ drunk!” And so much for not being rude to Prompto. Give yourself a break, though. This is absolute _hell_.

Noct bites the inside of his cheek and prods at his best friend, “Did you honestly not even notice? (y/n) smells like a walking bottle of whiskey. I’m surprised they didn’t immediately burst into flames the second they got that pathetic fireball formed.” 

“ _Noctis, you turd!”  
_

Gladio hands you a canteen once you’ve finally emptied your stomach and you swish and spit.  “Thanks,” you sigh, voice rough.  


“Don’t mention it.”  


“Shall we continue?” Ignis queries, attempting to brush over the spectacle, ever the gentleman. 

“Let’s,” you grumble, straightening out your jacket and ambling onward. You have to admit, you _do_ feel better. It just would’ve been ideal to not blow chunks in front of everyone in order to feel this way. 

“Ah,” Ignis hums when you all come into view of a massive tomb made of white stone, “there it is.” 

Prom lets out a low whistle. “A tomb fit for royalty.” 

You have to admit, it’s pretty... for a _tomb_. A shock of white against brown stone and verdant grass, with what looks to be dark metal accentuating the curvature of the architecture. Your inner aesthete croons over the ancient fixture just as your stomach gurgles unpleasantly.  With a wince you grumble, “No sightseeing. Let’s just find the marshal.” 

Inside the cool darkness of the tomb you’re all greeted by a stone of a man whom Ignis immediately greets with the kind of deference that’s customarily bestowed upon someone of Cor Leonis’ high military standing. Honestly, you’re just grateful that Iggy’s on his A-game when it comes to etiquette, because it takes those icy blue eyes snapping to you, narrowing in curiosity and suspicion, for you to introduce yourself. 

You duck your head in a quick cursory bow (and try not to groan when the backs of your eyes throb). “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m (y/n) Iovita, His Highness’ arcane advisor.” It feels a bit weird introducing yourself like that. But you _did_ swear yourself to Noct and he _did_ accept you, albeit with a phlegmatic “yeah.” Hardly a great tale, but a tale nonetheless. 

“You’re,” Cor’s eyes stray to your staff and soften, “(y/n) Iovita? Of course. I don’t know why I expected you to look like your mother.” 

Stomach twists painfully but you smile politely. “Should’ve known better.” 

There’s a strange tension in the tomb and it all seems to radiate from Noct. It’s at this moment that you realize he’s glaring daggers at the Immortal. Wanting to be of some use as an advisor to the prince, you take a step forward to place a hand on his shoulder and- stomach gurgles. It seems to echo in the tomb. All eyes are on you. A strained smile reaches your lips as you pat the prince’s shoulder and announce, “I’ll be outside.” 

Sweet air fills your lungs the second you step outside. But you’re _miserable._ You feel like you’re running a fever, tempted to rip off your clothes this instant if it weren’t for all the people in the damn tomb behind you. Gods, is this alcohol poisoning? You _swear_ you got everything out of  your system! But why are you suddenly feeling worse now that you’ve emptied your stomach? Patting down your pockets you retrieve an antidote from your inner pocket and bite your lip. These things are certainly expensive and you’re not even sure if you need to use- 

“Tea.” 

It hits you like a truck. Two glasses of whiskey doesn’t equal a trashed (y/n) Iovita and two glasses have certainly never caused you to black out. You tally it in your head, making special note of your inability to properly conjure your magic and control it. Eyes close as you envision the scene before you... The large wooden desk covered in papers filled with your mother’s arcing handwriting, her collection of crystals on the lefthand side, the teapot on the right. Talmudge’s hands clasped on the table, rings glimmering. One tea cup. _One tea cup_. What color was the tea? Amber? That’s normal. That grimace on Talmudge’s face when you started drinking whiskey instead of tea, though... 

Eyes snap open just as you crush the antidote vial in your hand, purple wisps of magic filling your nostrils. Jaw clenches as your head clears and your stomach settles. The fever rushes away as you hiss, “That decrepit son of a bitch!”

* * *

**Ignis**

When the guys find you, you’re alone in a booth, eating fries that have been drowned in ketchup and drinking lukewarm soda. You look casual. Too casual. It doesn’t take them long to realize that you’ve carefully contrived an aura of indifference; lackadaisically scrolling through your phone, earbuds in, tapping your foot to the beat of a song that isn’t even playing. It’s immediately obvious to the observant likes of Ignis and Gladio that you’re piss drunk. There’s a slight sway to you, like you’re sitting in the middle of a windstorm, you can’t seem to keep your head still- bobbing it now and then like you’re listening to some funky beats. 

Hell, Prompto and Noct actually buy your whole “listening to music” act. But the older guys know better. And they’re on edge. Because you? Well, you’ve set a certain standard for yourself at this point. Though you’re an underhanded little troll, you carry yourself with an air of decorum like a blue blood. There’s a haughtiness in the way you walk and talk, chin always kept a little high, stoic gaze cast down your nose. You come across as learned, well-bred, and worldly though you’re a hermit. And for them to see you wasted? They know you’re hurting. 

Takka makes eye-contact with them and shakes his head, a silent warning to leave you alone. When you stumbled into the diner, soaked with rain and eyes bloodshot, the older man had been worried. What had worried him even more were the little pops of electricity that lit up the air around you. When he’d shakily pointed it out, the light show immediately stopped and you gave him a pleasant smile before placing your order. He could smell the whiskey on your breath. And he definitely knew you were drunk when you tried to pay in pocket lint and Leiden pepper kernels. 

“Here’s a tip!” You’d urged and added a small feather that had caught your eye onto the pile of pepper and lint. 

“I’ll just wait for your friends to come around,” he’d said, eyes sad and smile strained. 

You’re staring at your phone, at the many texts you haven’t deleted. You’ve already listened to all of your mother’s voicemails at least once- chuckling softly to yourself at her especially chilly messages. You can’t bring yourself to delete them now. Slowly but surely, you’re sobering up. You’ve gotten trashed on enough vintage wine to know just what to eat to take the edge off (starchy foods always help you stave off some of the effects of alcohol). Slowly but surely, reality is setting in and you’re a bit beyond grief right now. You want revenge. 

“Hey, (y/n).” Noct slides into the booth across from you, unable or unwilling to take a hint from Takka. The others stay away, loitering in the doorway though Ignis looks like he wants more than anything to come to you. You turn your hazy gaze onto the prince. Just from the sober look on his face, you know he wants to have a heavy conversation. But you can’t stomach that right now. The day has been too bleak- so bleak that you feel like you’ve been walking in a nightmare. 

“You can’t have any fries. Buy your own,” you snap before Noct can get another word out. “I know you have money, you little freeloader.” 

“Actually, you didn’t buy those, (y/n),” Takka calls from the his place behind the counter but you ignore him. He sighs and looks down at the pile of pepper on the countertop. After a moment, he picks some string out of it. 

The prince blinks in surprise at you and furrows his brow. “I wasn’t gonna ask for any.” 

Good. Your plan is working. The once concerned expression on his face is replaced with irritation. He’s probably thinking to himself: “Well, why _can’t_ I have any fries if I want any? I’ve given them enough of my food to at least earn _one_ ketchup-saturated fry.” Noct is already forgetting about the news. The Empire’s awful treachery is taking a backseat to your food treachery. Pettiness is getting in the way of grief. You just have to put one more nail in the coffin. 

“Ignis can have some, though.”  


Iggy smiles at you faintly from the doorway. “Thank you, (y/n).” 

Takka turns his gaze onto the tactician. “Are you gonna pay for their meal?” Ignis sighs and goes over to pay, pulling out his wallet as he goes. When he gets to the counter, though, Takka tells him that he doesn’t _actually_ expect him to pay, but he just wants the prince’s advisor to keep an eye on you. “It’s on the house,” Takka murmurs lowly, warm brown eyes straying to you and the prince. “They need it.” 

Noct is starting to look like a petulant child, dark eyebrows knitted together, bottom lip slightly pouting out. He crosses his arms, hunches his posture a bit. “What? How come Specs can have some but I can’t?” 

You sip your soda and watch him from beneath your eyelashes, playing up the part of the asshole friend. “I thought you didn’t want any?” 

“Well, now that you’re being unfair-” He stops short when a fry smacks his forehead. Damn. Though you pride yourself on your near-perfect hand-eye coordination, you’re still a bit buzzed and thus didn’t expect to _actually_ hit the prince square in the forehead. You’re actually a bit pleased even as those steely blue eyes glare at you. 

“You should know better than anyone that sometimes life just isn’t fair.” Pushing the plate of fries toward him, you lean back in the booth and sigh. The room swims a bit. Guess the fries didn’t work all that well. “Not at all.” 

“(y/n)...” 

You wave your hand dismissively in the air, wave away his pitying tone. “But I’m happy that I can deprive you of fries and make you forget just how unfair life can be. Because you’re so pissed about my cold-ass fries that you forgot.” You chuckle softly and shake your head, “Just for a second I was able to help you forget.” 

Noct huffs out a faint laugh, “So, whenever anything bad happens I can count on you to distract me?” 

“You can count on me for more than that, Noct. I was sworn to you from birth and I swore myself to you again there,” you gesture out of the window, “in that parking lot. I’ll never let you down. _Never_.” 

“I’m...” Noct frowns, the day’s events coming back to him, “I’m sorry about your mom.” 

“You can make it up to me by helping me overthrow Arch-Mage Talmudge after I help you evict the Empire.” You eat a fry and grimace before adding salt. “And you can’t get mad if I throw him from the fifteenth floor window. It’s kind of a family tradition.” 

Noct pops a fry in his mouth and immediately gags. As he spits it out in a napkin, he flounders, “Wait. _Arch-Mage_? I thought _you_ were supposed to direct the Spire after your mom?” 

“Nepotism has no place in academia,” you mimic Talmudge’s frail voice but the jeer is lost on Noct. “So, I’m going to have to take back my family’s legacy the old way: With the King of Lucis’ backing and a boot up an old man’s flat ass... and preferably out of a window.” 

“You really want to throw him out of a window, huh?” The prince queries, raising one dark eyebrow at your incessant threats. 

“I feel like it would complete me, yes.” 

He sighs, staring at your plate of ketchup-drowned fries. Noct isn’t oblivious, he knows you don’t want to talk about your mother or what went down at the Spire. Hell, _you’re_ not even really sure what went down at the Spire. Leaving the college was a blur. You can’t even remember how you even got to Hammerhead, to be honest. One second you were leaving the office, you blink and you’re stuffing an obscene amount of junk in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, and then you’re killing your fries in ketchup. 

“ _It’s a miracle I’m not dead,”_ you think with a flip of your stomach.  


“Well,” Noct leans forward, elbows on the table, “we can start off on our road to revenge by  following up on a lead.” 

“What lead?” 

“The marshal, Cor the Immortal,” when he sees a hint of recognition in your glassy eyes, Noct continues, “he’s asked us to meet him at a nearby royal tomb.” 

You remember hearing about Cor Leonis. Cato didn’t shut up about him. Or he _wouldn’t_. You tried to tease him about his crush but it didn’t deter him in the slightest. Thus, you had to hear of Cor the Immortal’s exploits as you got beaten with a training sword. 

“We’re going to a tomb? Grave robbing? I’m game.” 

“(y/n), it’s not-” 

“We’re going into the ancient burial place of a Lucian king and you’re going to take something from said burial place, I’m assuming. Hm,” you stroke your chin in mock thought, “I’d say by any definition that’s grave robbing.” 

He sighs, “Fine.” 

You’re swaggering out of the diner on Noct’s heels before you know it, but you can feel the great, looming presence of one Gladiolus Amicitia behind you all the while. It’s at this moment that you  know he can smell the booze on you underneath the musty veil of grease and tangy ketchup. Gladio and Ignis exchange a look behind your back and you aren’t surprised in the least when you find yourself being steered away from Choco Jr. and toward the Regalia to be sandwiched between the prince and his Shield. Ignis glances at you in the Regalia’s rearview mirror and frowns. 

Truth be told, you would’ve given Ignis a run for his money if you’d been his charge. Every now and then he gets a taste of it and he thanks the Astrals that you’re a fellow advisor and not _technically_ under his watch. He nearly has a heart-attack each time you construct pepper bombs in the name of herbalism and when you hand flasks of venomcast to Prom like you’re throwing a baseball his way and _not_ something that could _incapacitate everyone_. You’re _not_ his charge. And yet he finds himself glancing up into the rearview mirror every now and then to check on you. 

“Are you all right, (y/n)?” He asks, keeping his tone neutral.  


You glance up to meet his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Yes. Thank you.” 

If he weren’t driving, he’d match your gaze forever, but the tactician forces himself to blink and return his eyes to the road. It’s a funny thing that he’s been finding himself doing more and more often. _Staring_. And staring is rude. But he does it all the same. Staring at you over the campfire and through the rearview mirror. Occasionally you catch him and he feels his heart leap. But then you look away like nothing ever happened and he feels cold without your intense, inquisitive eyes on him. 

“And here we are,” Ignis announces after clearing his throat, pulling to the side of the highway to park the car. 

It’s daytime and you’re miserable. You’re stuck between two very strong compulsions: sleeping and puking. But _dammit_ , you’re an Iovita and you need to put on a proper face. A face that doesn’t say: “I’m still trashed and one wrong move away from projectile vomiting whiskey and fries all over everyone.” _Especially_ when you discover that you’re at the Hunter HQ. Like hell are you going to spew your guts in front of a bunch of hardened daemon hunters. 

“You okay?” Prom asks at exactly the wrong moment.  


You cut your eyes to him and he yelps. “I’m fine,” you hiss. 

And you totally aren’t, because when you walk you feel like you’re walking around with your head in a fishbowl. Sounds are tinnier and more confusing. Lights are impossibly bright and dizzying. And when you five make your way out of the Hunter HQ and wind up fighting friggin’ _birds_? You get maybe one fireball fully formed for about a second before it sputters out into a pathetic fizzle. It’s time for you to tap out. You’re hunched over, hands splayed on the face of a cliff to keep yourself upright and retching as the guys valiantly fight the daggerquills to the tune of your horrendous and seemingly endless vomiting. After the battle is over, the blond sharpshooter comes running up to you. Then he thinks better of it and takes a few steps back. 

“Whoa! (y/n)! Are you sick? Did you get poisoned?” Prom frets, keeping a safe distance away from the splatter zone. 

Swinging your head around to glare daggers at him, you point out the obvious, “I’m freakin’ drunk!” 

Noct bites the inside of his cheek and prods at his best friend, “Did you honestly not even notice? (y/n) smells like a walking bottle of whiskey. I’m surprised they didn’t immediately burst into flames the second they got that pathetic fireball formed.” 

“ _Noctis, you turd!”  
_

Gladio hands you a canteen once you’ve finally emptied your stomach and you swish and spit.  “Thanks,” you sigh, voice rough.  


“Don’t mention it.”  


“Shall we continue?” Ignis queries, attempting to brush over the spectacle, ever the gentleman. 

“Let’s,” you grumble, straightening out your jacket and ambling onward. You have to admit, you _do_ feel better. It just would’ve been ideal to not blow chunks in front of everyone in order to feel this way. 

“Ah,” Ignis hums when you all come into view of a massive tomb made of white stone, “there it is.” 

Prom lets out a low whistle. “A tomb fit for royalty.” 

You have to admit, it’s pretty... for a _tomb_. A shock of white against brown stone and verdant grass, with what looks to be dark metal accentuating the curvature of the architecture. Your inner aesthete croons over the ancient fixture just as your stomach gurgles unpleasantly.  With a wince you grumble, “No sightseeing. Let’s just find the marshal.” 

Inside the cool darkness of the tomb you’re all greeted by a stone of a man whom Ignis immediately greets with the kind of deference that’s customarily bestowed upon someone of Cor Leonis’ high military standing. Honestly, you’re just grateful that Iggy’s on his A-game when it comes to etiquette, because it takes those icy blue eyes snapping to you, narrowing in curiosity and suspicion, for you to introduce yourself. 

You duck your head in a quick cursory bow (and try not to groan when the backs of your eyes throb). “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m (y/n) Iovita, His Highness’ arcane advisor.”  It feels a bit weird introducing yourself like that. But you _did_ swear yourself to Noct and he _did_ accept you, albeit with a phlegmatic “yeah.” Hardly a great tale, but a tale nonetheless. 

“You’re,” Cor’s eyes stray to your staff and soften, “(y/n) Iovita? Of course. I don’t know why I expected you to look like your mother.” 

Stomach twists painfully but you smile politely. “Should’ve known better.” 

There’s a strange tension in the tomb and it all seems to radiate from Noct. It’s at this moment that you realize he’s glaring daggers at the Immortal. Wanting to be of some use as an advisor to the prince, you take a step forward to place a hand on his shoulder and- stomach gurgles. It seems to echo in the tomb. All eyes are on you. A strained smile reaches your lips as you pat the prince’s shoulder and announce, “I’ll be outside.” 

Sweet air fills your lungs the second you step outside. But you’re _miserable._ You feel like you’re running a fever, tempted to rip off your clothes this instant if it weren’t for all the people in the damn tomb behind you. Gods, is this alcohol poisoning? You _swear_ you got everything out of your system! But why are you suddenly feeling worse now that you’ve emptied your stomach? Patting down your pockets you retrieve an antidote from your inner pocket and bite your lip. These things are certainly expensive and you’re not even sure if you need to use- 

“Tea.” 

It hits you like a truck. Two glasses of whiskey doesn’t equal a trashed (y/n) Iovita and two glasses have certainly never caused you to black out. You tally it in your head, taking special note of your inability to conjure your magic and control it properly. Eyes close as you envision the scene before you... The large wooden desk covered in papers filled with your mother’s arcing handwriting, her collection of crystals on the lefthand side, the teapot on the right. Talmudge’s hands clasped on the table, rings glimmering. One tea cup. _One tea cup_. What color was the tea? Amber? That’s normal. That grimace on Talmudge’s face when you started drinking whiskey instead of tea, though... 

Eyes snap open just as you crush the antidote vial in your hand, purple wisps of magic filling your nostrils. Jaw clenches as your head clears and your stomach settles. The fever rushes away as you hiss, “That decrepit son of a bitch!”

* * *

**Gladiolus**

When the guys find you, you’re alone in a booth, eating fries that have been drowned in ketchup and drinking lukewarm soda. You look casual. Too casual. It doesn’t take them long to realize that you’ve carefully contrived an aura of indifference; lackadaisically scrolling through your phone, earbuds in, tapping your foot to the beat of a song that isn’t even playing. It’s immediately obvious to the observant likes of Ignis and Gladio that you’re piss drunk. There’s a slight sway to you, like you’re sitting in the middle of a windstorm, you can’t seem to keep your head still- bobbing it now and then like you’re listening to some funky beats. 

Hell, Prompto and Noct actually buy your whole “listening to music” act. But the older guys know better. And they’re on edge. Because you? Well, you’ve set a certain standard for yourself at this point. Though you’re an underhanded little troll, you carry yourself with an air of decorum like a blue blood. There’s a haughtiness in the way you walk and talk, chin always kept a little high, stoic gaze cast down your nose. You come across as learned, well-bred, and worldly though you’re a hermit. And for them to see you wasted? They know you’re hurting. 

Takka makes eye-contact with them and shakes his head, a silent warning to leave you alone. When you stumbled into the diner, soaked with rain and eyes bloodshot, the older man had been worried. What had worried him even more were the little pops of electricity that lit up the air around you. When he’d shakily pointed it out, the light show immediately stopped and you gave him a pleasant smile before placing your order. He could smell the whiskey on your breath. And he definitely knew you were drunk when you tried to pay in pocket lint and Leiden pepper kernels. 

“Here’s a tip!” You’d urged and added a small feather that had caught your eye onto the pile of pepper and lint. 

“I’ll just wait for your friends to come around,” he’d said, eyes sad and smile strained. 

You’re staring at your phone, at the many texts you haven’t deleted. You’ve already listened to all of your mother’s voice messages at least once- chuckling softly to yourself at her especially chilly messages. You can’t bring yourself to delete them now. Slowly but surely, you’re sobering up. You’ve gotten trashed on enough vintage wine to know just what to eat to take the edge off (starchy foods always help you stave off some of the effects of alcohol). Slowly but surely, reality  is setting in and you’re a bit beyond grief right now. You want revenge. 

“Hey, (y/n).” Noct slides into the booth across from you, unable or unwilling to take a hint from Takka. The others stay away, loitering in the doorway though Gladio looks like he wants more than anything to come to you. You turn your hazy gaze onto the prince. Just from the sober look on his face, you know he wants to have a heavy conversation. But you can’t stomach that right now. The day has been too bleak- so bleak that you feel like you’ve been walking in a nightmare. 

“You can’t have any fries. Buy your own,” you snap before Noct can get another word out. “I know you have money, you little freeloader.” 

“Actually, you didn’t buy those, (y/n),” Takka calls from the his place behind the counter but you ignore him. He sighs and looks down at the pile of pepper on the countertop. After a moment, he picks some string out of it. 

The prince blinks in surprise at you and furrows his brow. “I wasn’t gonna ask for any.” 

Good. Your plan is working. The once concerned expression on his face is replaced with irritation. He’s probably thinking to himself: “Well, why _can’t_ I have any fries if I want any? I’ve given them enough of my food to at least earn _one_ ketchup-saturated fry.” Noct is already forgetting about the news. The Empire’s awful treachery is taking a backseat to your food treachery. Pettiness is getting in the way of grief. You just have to put one more nail in the coffin. 

“Gladdy can have some, though.” 

Gladio stifles a blush at the sudden nickname and smirks at you from the doorway. “Thanks, Magey.” 

Takka turns his gaze onto the prince’s Shield. “Are you gonna pay for their meal?” Amber eyes shoot you an irritated (but kinda amused) look before the bodyguard goes over to pay, whipping out his wallet as he goes. When he gets to the counter, though, Takka tells him that he doesn’t _actually_ expect him to pay, but he just wants Gladio to keep an eye on you. “It’s on the house,” Takka murmurs lowly, warm brown eyes straying to you and the prince. “They need it.” 

Noct is starting to look like a petulant child, dark eyebrows knitted together, bottom lip slightly pouting out. He crosses his arms, hunches his posture a bit. “What? How come Gladio can have some but I can’t?” 

You sip your soda and watch him from beneath your eyelashes, playing up the part of the asshole friend. “I thought you didn’t want any?” 

“Well, now that you’re being unfair-” He stops short when a fry smacks his forehead. Damn. Though you pride yourself on your near-perfect hand-eye coordination, you’re still a bit buzzed and thus didn’t expect to _actually_ hit the prince square in the forehead. You’re actually a bit pleased even as those steely blue eyes glare at you. 

“You should know better than anyone that sometimes life just isn’t fair.” Pushing the plate of fries toward him, you lean back in the booth and sigh. The room swims a bit. Guess the fries didn’t work all that well. “Not at all.” 

“(y/n)...” 

You wave your hand dismissively in the air, wave away his pitying tone. “But I’m happy that I can deprive you of fries and make you forget just how unfair life can be. Because you’re so pissed about my cold-ass fries that you forgot.” You chuckle softly and shake your head, “Just for a second I was able to help you forget.” 

Noct huffs out a faint laugh, “So, whenever anything bad happens I can count on you to distract me?” 

“You can count on me for more than that, Noct. I was sworn to you from birth and I swore myself to you again there,” you gesture out of the window, “in that parking lot. I’ll never let you down. _Never_.” 

“I’m...” Noct frowns, the day’s events coming back to him, “I’m sorry about your mom.” 

“You can make it up to me by helping me overthrow Arch-Mage Talmudge after I help you evict the Empire.” You eat a fry and grimace before adding salt. “And you can’t get mad if I throw him from the fifteenth floor window. It’s kind of a family tradition.” 

Noct pops a fry in his mouth and immediately gags. As he spits it out in a napkin, he flounders, “Wait. _Arch-Mage_? I thought _you_ were supposed to direct the Spire after your mom?” 

“Nepotism has no place in academia,” you mimic Talmudge’s frail voice but the jeer is lost on Noct. “So, I’m going to have to take back my family’s legacy the old way: With the King of Lucis’ backing and a boot up an old man’s flat ass... and preferably out of a window.” 

“You really want to throw him out of a window, huh?” The prince queries, raising one dark eyebrow at your incessant threats. 

“I feel like it would complete me, yes.” 

He sighs, staring at your plate of ketchup-drowned fries. Noct isn’t oblivious, he knows you don’t want to talk about your mother or what went down at the Spire. Hell, _you’re_ not even really sure what went down at the Spire. Leaving the college was a blur. You can’t even remember how you even got to Hammerhead, to be honest. One second you were leaving the office, you blink and you’re stuffing an obscene amount of junk in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, and then you’re killing your fries in ketchup. 

“ _It’s a miracle I’m not dead,”_ you think with a flip of your stomach.  


“Well,” Noct leans forward, elbows on the table, “we can start off on our road to revenge by  following up on a lead.” 

“What lead?” 

“The marshal, Cor the Immortal,” when he sees a hint of recognition in your glassy eyes, Noct continues, “he’s asked us to meet him at a nearby royal tomb.” 

You remember hearing about Cor Leonis. Cato didn’t shut up about him. Or he _wouldn’t_. You tried to tease him about his crush but it didn’t deter him in the slightest. Thus, you had to hear of Cor the Immortal’s exploits as you got beaten with a training sword. 

“We’re going to a tomb? Grave robbing? I’m game.” 

“(y/n), it’s not-” 

“We’re going into the ancient burial place of a Lucian king and you’re going to take something from said burial place, I’m assuming. Hm,” you stroke your chin in mock thought, “I’d say by any definition that’s grave robbing.” 

He sighs, “Fine.” 

You’re swaggering out of the diner on Noct’s heels before you know it, but you can feel the great, looming presence of one Gladiolus Amicitia behind you all the while. It’s at this moment that you know he can smell the booze on you underneath the musty veil of grease and tangy ketchup. Gladio and Ignis exchange a look behind your back and you aren’t surprised in the least when you find yourself being steered away from Choco Jr. and toward the Regalia to be sandwiched between the prince and his Shield. 

“Feelin’ tired yet, Magey?” Gladio rumbles from beside you. 

You shrug lazily. “Not really.”  


“Well, lean on me if you need to.” 

You hum in response and Gladio side-eyes you. He knows exactly what you’re going through and it kills him to know you’re going through it alone. He’s immensely thankful for Iris; that he has a sibling to grieve with over his father (not that he’s _happy_ that she’s mourning); that he has someone to share his father’s memory with. But you? He’d heard stories about you from other Crownsguard members when he was training. Rumors started up by some chatterbox, Cato. The brunet bruiser always had nothing but nice things to say about that Iovita kid, but there was one thing that stuck out. 

“The Spire is creepy as shit,” Cato’d said to a group of interested listeners, “but it’s kinda classy, y’know? And that Iovita, the little one, they’re somethin’ else. Can’t take a punch worth a damn but man if they’re not tenacious. Feel sorry for ‘em though.” 

“What do you mean?” Someone had asked. “They’re living in the lap of luxury. I hear those mages have it made in the Spire.” 

“Yeah, but,” Cato shook his head, brow furrowed, “I dunno. (y/n) had a black eye when they came to practice and they kept changing the subject when I asked about it. I think the younger mages like startin’ shit with ‘em. I don’t think they have any friends other than their mom and maybe like one of the magisters or somethin’, the tall lady who’s always with Arch-Mage Decima.” 

“Really? That’s weird.” 

“Yeah.” 

Gladio doesn’t bother waiting for you to fall asleep to put one arm around your shoulders, hand resting on your upper arm. You start and look up at him, wondering what’s wrong. He doesn’t look at you. Then you remember that his father, Clarus Amicitia, was among those killed in the attack. Looking straight ahead down the road, you put your hand on his. He squeezes your arm. 

“And here we are,” Ignis announces, pulling to the side of the highway to park the car. 

It’s daytime and you’re miserable. You’re stuck between two very strong compulsions: sleeping and puking. But _dammit_ , you’re an Iovita and you need to put on a proper face. A face that doesn’t say: “I’m still trashed and one wrong move away from projectile vomiting whiskey and fries all over everyone.” _Especially_ when you discover that you’re at the Hunter HQ. Like hell are you going to spew your guts in front of a bunch of hardened daemon hunters. 

“You okay?” Prom asks at exactly the wrong moment.  


You cut your eyes to him and he yelps. “I’m fine,” you hiss.  


And you totally aren’t, because when you walk you feel like you’re walking around with your  head in a fishbowl. Sounds are tinnier and more confusing. Lights are impossibly bright and dizzying. And when you five make your way out of the Hunter HQ and wind up fighting friggin’ _birds_? You get maybe one fireball fully formed for about a second before it sputters out into a pathetic fizzle. It’s time for you to tap out. You’re hunched over, hands splayed on the face of a cliff to keep yourself upright and retching as the guys valiantly fight the daggerquills to the tune of your horrendous and seemingly endless vomiting. After the battle is over, the blond sharpshooter comes running up to you. Then he thinks better of it and takes a few steps back. 

“Whoa! (y/n)! Are you sick? Did you get poisoned?” Prom frets, keeping a safe distance away from the splatter zone. 

Swinging your head around to glare daggers at him, you point out the obvious, “I’m freakin’ drunk!” 

Noct bites the inside of his cheek and prods at his best friend, “Did you honestly not even notice? (y/n) smells like a walking bottle of whiskey. I’m surprised they didn’t immediately burst into flames the second they got that pathetic fireball formed.” 

“ _Noctis, you turd!”  
_

Gladio hands you a canteen once you’ve finally emptied your stomach and you swish and spit.  “Thanks,” you sigh, voice rough.  


“Don’t mention it.”  


“Shall we continue?” Ignis queries, attempting to brush over the spectacle, ever the gentleman. 

“Let’s,” you grumble, straightening out your jacket and ambling onward. You have to admit, you _do_ feel better. It just would’ve been ideal to not blow chunks in front of everyone in order to feel this way. 

“Ah,” Ignis hums when you all come into view of a massive tomb made of white stone, “there it is.” 

Prom lets out a low whistle. “A tomb fit for royalty.” 

You have to admit, it’s pretty... for a _tomb_. A shock of white against brown stone and verdant grass, with what looks to be dark metal accentuating the curvature of the architecture. Your inner aesthete croons over the ancient fixture just as your stomach gurgles unpleasantly.  With a wince you grumble, “No sightseeing. Let’s just find the marshal.” 

Inside the cool darkness of the tomb you’re all greeted by a stone of a man whom Ignis immediately greets with the kind of deference that’s customarily bestowed upon someone of Cor Leonis’ high military standing. Honestly, you’re just grateful that Iggy’s on his A-game when it comes to etiquette, because it takes those icy blue eyes snapping to you, narrowing in curiosity and suspicion, for you to introduce yourself. 

You duck your head in a quick cursory bow (and try not to groan when the backs of your eyes throb). “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m (y/n) Iovita, His Highness’ arcane advisor.” It feels a bit weird introducing yourself like that. But you _did_ swear yourself to Noct and he _did_ accept you, albeit with a phlegmatic “yeah.” Hardly a great tale, but a tale nonetheless. 

“You’re,” Cor’s eyes stray to your staff and soften, “(y/n) Iovita? Of course. I don’t know why I expected you to look like your mother.” 

Stomach twists painfully but you smile politely. “Should’ve known better.” 

There’s a strange tension in the tomb and it all seems to radiate from Noct. It’s at this moment that you realize he’s glaring daggers at the Immortal. Wanting to be of some use as an advisor to the prince, you take a step forward to place a hand on his shoulder and- stomach gurgles. It seems to echo in the tomb. All eyes are on you. A strained smile reaches your lips as you pat the prince’s shoulder and announce, “I’ll be outside.” 

Sweet air fills your lungs the second you step outside. But you’re _miserable._ You feel like you’re running a fever, tempted to rip off your clothes this instant if it weren’t for all the people in the damn tomb behind you. Gods, is this alcohol poisoning? You _swear_ you got everything out of your system! But why are you suddenly feeling worse now that you’ve emptied your stomach? Patting down your pockets you retrieve an antidote from your inner pocket and bite your lip. These things are certainly expensive and you’re not even sure if you need to use- 

“Tea.” 

It hits you like a truck. Two glasses of whiskey doesn’t equal a trashed (y/n) Iovita and two glasses have certainly never caused you to black out. You tally it in your head, making special note of your peculiar inability to properly conjure and handle your magic. Eyes close as you envision the scene before you... The large wooden desk covered in papers filled with your mother’s arcing handwriting, her collection of crystals on the lefthand side, the teapot on the right. Talmudge’s hands clasped on the table, rings glimmering. One tea cup. _One tea cup_. What color was the tea? Amber? That’s normal. That grimace on Talmudge’s face when you started drinking whiskey instead of tea, though... 

Eyes snap open just as you crush the antidote vial in your hand, purple wisps of magic filling your nostrils. Jaw clenches as your head clears and your stomach settles. The fever rushes away as you hiss, “That decrepit son of a bitch!” 


	13. 07. Lachrymose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In terms of in-game stats, you go down faster than Prompto. A sad yet typical state of affairs for a glass cannon. This isn’t a Noct chapter. However... your hero complex comes out. And I HC Noct as totally being the type to get swept off his feet. But not right now.   
> Just FYI I couldn’t get this damn chapter to flow for the life of me. So, just... imagine me sadly shaking my head as you read this with the occasional aggravated sigh. That’s the mood. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Violence, Noct Needs a Hero, And Supplies, Mostly Supplies, But Noct Appreciates the Hero Mage, ~History~, I’m Vauging About How I’m Going to Pull Off this BS Happy Ending

** 07 . Lachrymose  **

There are many reasons for you to hate Talmudge. He always ate the last of the tarts, he _only_ talked to you when you were trying to listen to music, he walked too slowly in the halls, he always re-gifted the presents you'd give him on his birthday (to _you_ , no less, so you started giving him things that you wanted), and he poisoned you. Are your priorities a little mixed up considering that list is categorized from most to least severe offense? Maybe. Well, add another one: His botched attempt on your life made you miss out on vital information concerning Noct's current quest to gain the old kings’ powers and reclaim his kingdom. 

_Yeah_... 

When Prom fills you in after everyone has made sure that you’re okay (they’re all a bit suspicious that you’re suddenly no longer “drunk"), you think he's joking. Hell, you think he's telling you the plot of some fantasy film you've yet to see. "I have an ancestor who allegedly took souls, which, let’s be honest, is pretty much what you’re doing," you say lamely, wiping a bit of sweat from your brow from the desert heat. " _Lumis_ who _loved_ binding spells." 

Prom looks at you with saucers for eyes and it’s an effort not to snort when he asks, all breathless, "Did he really steal souls?" 

“Brought to you by the Spire rumor mill. According to them, I’m a daemon like my ancestors because my magic comes ‘from nowhere’ like a daemon." You snort as you amble along after the marshal and the prince, “Load of _bullshit_ ,” you swear softly, still trying to come off at least moderately respectful around Cor. “My magic doesn’t come ‘from nowhere’ but from the Crystal.” 

Noct glances over his shoulder from his place beside the marshal, eyes immediately going straight to your staff as he asks, “You mean that one?” 

The Immortal seems to have tuned out of the conversation after he informed Noct of where you are all supposed to go- Keycatrich Tunnels, he’d said, a _dangerous_ place. So he takes point with Noct while you and the others follow. It’s a little uncomfortable for you to talk about things that  are considered “family secrets” around a stranger. But it’s highly doubtful _Cor Leonis_ is going to sell secrets to the Spire. 

“ _This_ crystal came from the Crystal that your family has always protected, Noct. The myth is that a fragment of the Crystal was broken off by Ramuh to create my ancestor in order to help protect those of the Lucian bloodline. It’s just a little story to explain to Iovita children why we serve the king and how we came to be born with our ‘peculiar’ magic.” 

“How’d you get your staff?” Gladio asks, curious about the crystal now. It’s so small and unassuming that it’s actually pretty easy to overlook compared to the ornately twisted iron of the staff. 

“It just appeared one day,” you admit. The Shield squints his amber eyes at you, totally not buying it even though you’re telling the truth. And now you know you’re going to have to explain this whole contrived story that you’d been told when you were a kid and were too young to think it sounded like a load of bull. You just hope they don’t poke fun at you for telling them a child’s bedtime story. “When an Iovita comes of age, Ramuh makes them a staff and it’s delivered to them by a Messenger as a sign of their calling.” You shrug, feeling hot under the collective gaze of the others. Damn the desert heat. “So, like, the tooth fairy for mages. You just wake up one day and, _bam_ , it’s there. I still think my mother had it made but she insisted she didn’t.” 

“Where’d you find it?” Prom queries lightly, eyebrows raised in interest, clearly digging the conversation even though you’re pretty sure about 99% of it is myth. If the Astrals were really _so_ involved in your family’s life, then why would they allow you all to get picked off by the Spire to the point that you’re basically an endangered species? 

“At the foot of my bed,” you reply curtly. "I was also taught that because he created my ancestor and because he represents the mage, Ramuh would determine punishment for any misuse of magic by an Iovita." 

"Misuse?" It’s Cor who decides to add to the conversation this time, not even looking back at you. The sound of his genuine interest in what you’re saying makes your steps falter and Gladio is quick to pull you along and help you hide your shame. 

You throw the back of the marshal’s head a teasing grin and joke, "I mean, I can get away with screwing around and making giant middle fingers out of ice and Ramuh won't give a damn. But if I disrupt nature? He's liable to smite my ass." 

"Disrupt nature?" The marshal is all serious, not addressing your wise-crack. Tough crowd. The man’s severity has you gently clearing your throat under Gladio’s amused gaze. 

At length, you explain, "Unlawful harm. It's just basic moral principles with special modifications. The condensed version is: Hissy fits are no good excuse for losing control of your magic and consequently committing murder, perform necromancy at your own peril, and if you steal souls Ramuh's got your number." 

Ignis side-eyes you and points out, “I thought you said ‘stealing souls’ was merely a rumor?” 

“ _Shit!”_

And now you’re getting into dangerous territory. The type of territory that requires a proper sit-down and level-headed conversation. The type of territory that _often_ got used by the Spire as ammunition against your family. And on one occasion, their accusations stuck and the King of Lucis himself had a private word with Lumis the Enchanter to get the practice of binding magic stopped altogether because the Spire had framed it as “soul stealing.” Funny. 

You wave your hand dismissively. “I’ll... tell you about it at camp, Iggy.” 

Cor shoots you a look over his shoulder and murmurs, “I find it heartening that you know your obligations and stand by the regulations imposed on your magic. You’re a very disciplined mage, (y/n). You’ve been trained well.” 

Heat rushes up your neck so fast that you swear you just got a heat rash. And Cor, either being perceptive or already bored of the conversation, takes your sudden silence to give Noct a little history lesson about the land around Keycatrich Trench, the next resting place of one of Noct’s ancestors. Within that lesson, he hints _heavily_ at Empire movement in the area- he basically tells all of you that you’re going to have to fight magitek soldiers while waving a banner that says “The Empire is here!” Yet it goes right over your head because you’re too damn busy blushing with your tongue tied to accept the marshal’s compliment or pay attention. 

When you first see the magitek soldiers, there’s just something very... uncanny valley about them- a distinct sense of “wrongness.” You find that your face is all screwed up when you use gravity and then quickly counteract with force to rip several of them apart. And Gladio is very quick to pounce at the opportunity to mimic each squeak of disgust and hiss of displeasure you make as you try to keep as much distance between yourself and them as humanly possible. The jerk. 

“So, this is Keycatrich Trench?” You ask no one in particular, wiping the sweat from your palms off on your pants and eyeing the ruined buildings. “Obviously the Empire knew about the royal tomb in the area. Hope they won’t always have the jump on us... Or at least I hope they aren't in those tunnels right now.” 

“Yes, this is the place,” Cor answers, icy eyes flicking to you. “Are you all right, (y/n)? That was a hard-fought battle. Though your skill with magic is amazing-”  The rest of what he said and the conversation that happens after? Yeah, you don’t hear any of it. You’re too busy bugging your eyes out at the marshal to the point that he cracks you an almost imperceptible smile, brows just slightly quirked, before turning to address _His Highness_. Behind your back, Gladio and Ignis exchange a Look™. 

Prom comes close to whisper in your ear, voice all high and excited, “I _know_! He’s so _cool_!” 

Indignant, you push the blond out of your bubble and huff, “Cool? What are you talking about?"

"You were _gawking_ ," the shutterbug teases. 

"I wasn’t _gawking_.” 

He shoots you that little crooked grin of his and throws his freckled arm over your shoulder to pull you right back in. “You _so_ were!” 

Luckily for you, the sharpshooter doesn’t get to continue his teasing because your huffy royal leader just has to give the two of you a pointed look to get you both hurrying after him into the tunnels. Though Prom makes his displeasure about the cramped, dark space known... you hope there are hobgoblins here, if only so you can see one in the flesh, though they’re apparently a pain in the ass. When you make this known, Ignis gives you a peculiar look and queries, “You _want_ there to be daemons in here, (y/n)?” 

“Well, when you put it like _that_...” you mumble, trailing off under his suddenly amused gaze. He’s totally using Gladio’s “tourist” label for you. 

“I’ll take pictures for you if there are any!” Prom assures you, trying his hardest to be chipper even though every noise has him jumping out of his skin.  Aaaaaand it only takes a minute for you all to discover that the old tunnels are crawling with _goblins_. The runty, uglier cousin of the hobgoblin. The runty, uglier cousin that carries around a  freakin’ _shiv_. There’s a swarm of goblins that you and Prompto are trying to dispatch while Iggy, Gladio, and Noct tag-team an arachne (Oh, the _look_ Noct gave you when you gasped in awe at the daemon and urged Prompto to “Hurry! Take the picture! Quick!”). Goblins are nimble with sticky fingers and before you all know it, they’ve stolen a load of your potions. 

“Just die already!” You yell as you fry one of the goblins with lightning only for another to come jumping at you, needly teeth bared, spindly little fingers splayed. You throw yourself out of the way of the goblin’s grabby hands. Just when you think you’re safe, something hits you so hard that you stumble forward, pain blossoming from your left shoulder to consume you. You immediately grip your shoulder. A gasp rips from your lips; you trip as you dramatically turn to confront your accidental assailant. Prompto’s eyes are impossibly wide, mouth agape in horror, gun aimed at you. 

“You shot me!” You screech, feeling faint already from the pain.  


“I’m so sorry!”  


“You-You-!” You struggle to catch your breath, hand slick with blood. “You’re _so dead_!” 

“You shouldn’t just run around everywhere!” He screams right back, somehow more flustered than you even though _you’re_ the one with the bullet in your shoulder. “You got in my line of fire!” 

“You should watch where you-!” You don’t get to finish because the goblin you’d been dodging tries to fish whatever it can get its nasty little hands on from your back pocket and you’re rearing around to whack it in the face with your staff. “Don’t you _dare_ try and play grab-ass with me right now, you heathen!” 

“(y/n)! Concentrate!” Gladio barks from where he slashes at one of the arachne’s legs. 

You have no choice but to grit your teeth and push through the fight, Prom staying close by all the while. When the last goblin has been sent to rot in goblin hell and the arachne has been felled, you lean against a wall and try to even out your breathing. The stone on your back feels too cold. Then you realize you’re running hot. Honestly, you’ve been holding your breath a lot due to the pain and all it’s doing is making your muscles tense up even more, further exacerbating the wound. Logic finds a hard time taking root in you, though, and you can’t get yourself to breathe  correctly. The second you whimper, Ignis is by your side and fretting over you. 

“I suppose we all should have trained together,” Ignis sighs, peeling your shirt away from your shoulder to examine the wound better. “Maybe then this wouldn’t have happened.” 

“Dunno about that. Prompto’s nearly shot me on several occasions and we’ve sparred together a few times,” Gladio admits, frowning each time you hiss and not even seeming to care that he just inadvertently threw his blond friend under the bus. 

“I’m sorry,” Prom murmurs, looking absolutely miserable and you wave him off. 

“Stop it. I’m not mad anymore. It’s not like you blew my damn arm off or anything.” You smile when those cornflower blue eyes meet yours. Prom returns your smile, albeit a bit shakily. 

“Here, (y/n),” Noct hands you a potion, well, he more or less forces it into your hand, “take this. Damn. We really should’ve resupplied when we had the chance.” 

“Or tried harder not to get robbed blind by morons in red caps,” you snark. Pain melts away and you let out a relieved sigh as you crush the panacea in your palm and its magical properties are released. You roll your head back against the wall, immensely grateful when the intense pain  abates. 

Noct rubs the back of his neck, clearly bothered by the lack of available supplies. “Hopefully we don’t run into any trouble on our way out.” 

Gladio shrugs. “We’ll be fine.” 

Feeling a bit paranoid, you murmur, “Famous last words. _You’re_ not the one who can be felled by a paper plane.” 

When you all finally make it to the tomb and you watch that celestial looking axe enter Noct’s body, you aren’t amazed. No. You’re troubled. From how Prompto had described it, it was some wondrous event that left him awestruck. Yes, it’s beautiful. Yes, it’s awe inspiring. But it still fills you with this indescribable dread all the same. It settles low in your gut, leaving you feeling heavy and empty at the same time. There’s _something_ you’re trying to remember that you read just the other day. Some story an ancestor wrote about using such soul-bound weaponry... You plaster on a smile when Prom turns to you to see if you’re impressed. You give him a thumbs up just in case he doesn’t buy it. The blond returns the gesture with a grin. 

“Well. That’s that.” Noct looks around the tomb one last time before turning on his heel and brushing by you. “Time to go.” 

As the guys convene at the entrance to the tunnels, you excuse yourself to get some air. In truth, you need a little time to yourself to understand why Noct taking the power of his ancestors (his _birthright_ ) to become king left you feeling like you were watching a train seconds before it crashed. When you exit Keycatrich Tunnels, it’s still thankfully daylight, the sun is low in the sky and the air smells sweet and feels warm rather than scorching hot. 

You stretch and try to ignore the whiff of blood that comes billowing up from your shirt, walking all the way out into the deserted clearing of the trench. What you can’t ignore, however, is the sight of movement out of the corner of your eye. Turning curiously, you freeze to the spot and pray that you’re either dreaming or maybe you dropped acid and didn’t realize it (People accidentally drop acid, right?). 

“ _Please let this be a hallucination.”_

“He-Hey there, little kitty cat.” You watch the coeurl with wide eyes. The large, sleek beast stares right back, sharp eyes trained on you. It flicks its tail, whiskers moving fluidly about its muscular frame as it paces back and forth before finally sitting, tail draping elegantly over its paws. It’s maybe eighty feet away but you know it can clear that distance in the blink of an eye. “Six, but you’re beautiful,” you sigh, torn between running away screaming and wanting so badly to take a picture, “so why do you have to be so _deadly_?” 

Coeurls were among your favorite creatures to study. Their deadly skills and unparalleled majesty always drew you in. Drusa pretty much sold you on them, too, with her brilliant illustrations and tales of tracking such dangerous beauties. “They’re remarkably intelligent,” she’d said, “I swear they can understand people.” What was probably hyperbole on her part has you grasping at straws. Because there’s no way in _hell_ that you can take this beast on your own. And if you’re being honest, it seems to promise a painful death for the others in its tightly coiled muscles. Maybe you all can live in the tunnels for the rest of your lives? Or at least until a skilled hunter comes around to kill the coeurl? 

“Let’s make a deal,” you murmur and you swear the coeurl inclines its head toward you, but you think it’s probably desperation on your part, “I’ll keep a respectful distance from you and- and you won’t kill me or my friends. Sound reasonable?” 

The coeurl blinks its golden eyes slowly and settles down a bit more comfortably. Just as you think you’ve come to some surreal sort of understanding with the giant electric cat, Iggy comes strolling over with Prompto behind him. Before you can even register what’s happening, you’re being pulled by your upper-arm over to a pile of cement bricks by the strategist.  “What the hell?!” Prompto, who had been swaggering his way toward you with a crooked smile on his lips and hadn’t noticed _why_ Iggy basically bodied you, pivots on his heel the second he spots the carnivore and comes speed-walking back to hide with you two. 

“This looks like trouble,” Ignis murmurs, verdant eyes scanning the coeurl, fingers still curled into the sleeve of your jacket. 

“That’s because it _is_ trouble,” you hiss. “We shouldn’t engage it. We’re out of potions and this isn’t your average housecat. Coeurls can literally kill you with a single-”  Whatever little peace treaty you’d imagined you conjured up with the beast dissolves the second Gladio and Noct come into view. You guess it’s the sheer number of people that are in the coeurl’s territory that aggravates it and pushes it over the edge. Or maybe it’s because Gladio is a great beast of a man and the rest of you don’t look _quite_ so threatening. Either way, the coeurl comes bounding over, muscles rippling with each move, and you think you can literally feel your soul leave your body at the sight of it. 

Though you swore to protect Noct, you keep a safe distance from the coeurl and instruct the others to do the same. You have a duty to uphold, sure, but you don’t have a death wish. And you sure as hell don’t want _anyone else_ dying, either. You’re running interference the whole time, shooting fireballs at the coeurl each time it tries to leap and swipe at one of the guys. In truth, you’re trying your damn hardest to keep _them_ away from the giant friggin’ death cat. But they all seem hellbent on getting up close and personal with the massive feline even though you _explicitly told them not to_. 

“ _Is it because I’m not wearing glasses and speaking with a posh accent that they don’t listen?”_ You wonder darkly as you erect a wall of fire between Gladio and the coeurl when the brunet gets clawed. 

“It’s weak to fire, in case you thought I decided to become a pyromancer for my own health,” you inform Noct sardonically when he warps to your side after dodging a swipe from the coeurl’s razor sharp claws. “Do you have any fira in a flask? If so, you might wanna spread the wealth to the others that way we can _finally_ start doing some damage to this thing.” 

“No,” Noct shakes his head, arm out in front of you like _he’s_ protecting _you,_ “but I think I can sneak around and blindside it.” 

You click your tongue, still able to get cheeky when your life is on the line. “ _Y’know,_ call me crazy but I don’t think that’s a very good-” 

“Prompto! You’re up!” Noct calls, completely ignoring your warning. 

“ _Six, take the wheel!”_

The blond does as instructed, taking aim and firing at the giant cat. Stunned, the coeurl backs off from the group, allowing everyone a bit of a reprieve from dodging its electric attacks. The feline stares everyone down in turn, oddly placid, before sitting down as if resting with its back to you and the prince. It’s still too close for comfort. But obviously it’s right where Noct wants it. Alarm bells blare in your head when it enters this seemingly calm stance. It sits perfectly still, whiskers flickering gently in an almost hypnotizing dance, muscles coiled tight beneath its spotted fur. Noct  approaches quickly, quietly, ready to strike.  


The words in Drusa’s book come rushing forth, a deluge of information that all tells you one  thing: **Danger**.  


It feels like your mouth is stuffed with cotton as dread tightens your gut. You rush over as fast as  you can, yelling out, “Wait! Noct!” 

Noct strikes from behind and the coeurl is quick to retaliate. Just as you try to shove Noct away from the coeurl, one of its electrified whiskers smacks you in the middle of your chest. You marvel at how gently the whisker touches you, like a love tap that you barely even feel- too gentle to lead to death. It’s all in the electricity, though, sending so much voltage coursing through you that it instantly stops your heart. You’re just thankful you aren’t touching Noct when it happens. 

An anguished wail seems to come from somewhere far, far away and outside of you. Time slows down as you fall. Noct’s face is the last thing you see before everything goes white. He looks terrified, blue eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. His horrified expression melts away to reveal two kind, silver eyes complemented by a patient smile. In a daze, you smile back at your mother. And then... nothing. 

“ _Who protects us?”_

Air rushes into your lungs and you gasp. The next time you can see, two amber eyes fill your vision before Gladio pulls away. He’s so close that you can see relief fill his eyes. But why is he so close in the first place? Gods, your chest _hurts_. Your _whole body_ hurts, sure, but it feels like a dualhorn just sat down on your chest and took a rest for a few hours. Ribs ache and heart throbs to the point that you think it might burst; lungs feel oddly constricted.  Gladio reclines, wipes the sweat from his brow. “Everyone, they’re all right,” he announces, voice rough with fatigue. 

“Ugh,” you moan, voice sounding small, “what just happened?” You try to sit up but Gladio is quick to push you back down, hand firm on your shoulder. Just his touch has your skin aching. When you make a soft whine in the back of your throat, the Shield gives you a curt shake of his head. He ain’t havin’ it. 

“You were dead,” Noct says it like he can’t really believe it himself and you jolt at the fact that he’s kneeling right next to you and you hadn’t even noticed. He’s staring at you, face devoid of emotion, pale as a ghost. “You died.” 

“Noct, did no one teach you about the permanence of death?” You’re quick to quip, feeling uneasy under his unblinking stare. You try to sit up again but your skin feels like it might shatter to pieces if you dare move. “Shit! I feel like _death_!” 

As suspected, Gladdy is giving you an icy look for your insubordination. “Cut it out.” 

You roll your eyes, but even _that_ feels like a chore. “I’m not dead. _Clearly,_ ” you grunt, stuck staring up at the orange sky. “It’s getting late,” you say to no one in particular, just to say something. 

“Your heart stopped.” It’s Ignis’ voice that you hear but you can’t see him. There’s a strange thickness to his tone. “Gladio immediately performed chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth once the electricity dispersed. He saved your life.” 

Eyes cut to the big guy who hasn’t left your side. Though he looks severe, you can’t help but  joke, “Ooh la la.” Six, you can’t even laugh properly, since the moment you _do_ try to chuckle a vise constricts around your ribs. 

“Shut it, Magey. You scared the hell out of us,” Gladio snaps.  


“Where’s the coeurl?” You ask in an effort to take some of the heat off of you. 

A head of blond hair pokes into your field of vision and you almost don’t recognize the sharpshooter with his puffy eyes. “The second you died, it ran off. It’s- It’s been watching from _there_ the whole time,” Prompto says between hiccups, face covered in tears and snot. “It’s kinda creepy,” he murmurs, barely audible. 

Miraculously, you manage to sit up on your elbows this time to look where Prom points. As he said, the coeurl is sitting in one of the ruined buildings, lounging in what was once a doorway, golden eyes watching closely. When it sees you sitting up, it stands and walks away. You watch as it goes, brow furrowed. “So much for our deal!” You call after it. Its tail flicks and you turn to look at Noct. “So... I don’t want _this_ to happen again. We might need to invest in phoenix down. I know it’s expensive, but-” 

“Got it,” Noct interrupts you, still staring. 

“Maybe now you’ll listen to me from here on out? I’m more than a cute face. I’m actually _pretty damn smart_.” You offer him a weak smile when you realize he still looks shellshocked. Did he really get that frightened? This worries you, so you decide to tell a lame story. “Back at the college I always carried around a mega phoenix for luck. In truth, my mother was worried I might blow myself or someone else up when I first learned to use fire spells. So, she had me carry it around just in case. Trouble is, I lost it. Or someone stole it.” You can tell he isn’t listening. 

“Was there a theft problem in the Spire?” Ignis asks in a clear attempt at lightening the mood. He’s stepped toward you now, having kept watch on the coeurl while Gladio resuscitated you, Noct sat catatonic, and Prom freaked the hell out. Gods, he looks like he just went through hell and back but he still manages to give you a faint, kind smile. “I must admit, I didn’t suspect mages to be thieves up until I met you,” Iggy chuckles. 

“Shit, man, I stole food and wine _all_ the time. The gods probably thought I was way past due some comeuppance.” You laugh and wince as pressure builds in your chest. “Damn, Gladio. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but could you try and _not_ fracture my ribs the next time you have to resuscitate me?” 

The bodyguard growls, “Dammit, (y/n), there better not be a _next time_.”  


“We should get you a potion. Let us be off.” Ignis nods to Gladio and the bodyguard carries you  in his arms without needing to be told a word. You could die all over again. 

You don’t know it, but none of them will ever be able to forget the way you screamed when you died. It wakes Noct up several nights; the feeling of you falling lifeless into his arms, the prickle of remaining electricity on his skin, the sounds of the coeurl snarling and rushing away, how you smiled up at him as the light left your eyes. He’s drenched in sweat when he awakes from those nightmares. 

In them, Gladio doesn’t succeed in resuscitating you; he just goes at it forever with you staring up into the sky with that peaceful smile on your face. The sounds of Prompto’s hysterical sobbing and Gladio’s rhythmic counting are all that he can hear. He tries to look away, but the only other thing he can see is the way Ignis won’t look at anyone. He immediately checks on you. Sighs in relief each time he hears your soft breathing, smiles when you murmur something incoherent, and  snorts when you make a face at something happening in some dream. Sometimes, you even wake up to the prince dead asleep and sitting next to you. 


	14. 08. Glass (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like a good ol’ death to send you down a bad path. Last chapter before we start hopping around like a little rabbit through the timeline. 
> 
> In this chapter: Maybe the Spire wasn’t totally to blame for persecuting the Iovitas? Nah, man. But it’s a slippery slope for you to start dabblin’ in shit you shouldn’t be messing with in the first place. No lovin’ in this. Just angst. Sorry y’all.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Angst it Up, Mage Magnetism, Time to Get Drunk, More Vauging About Pulling Off that Ending and Then I’m Done, Come to the Dark Side, Convoluted AU, Noct: the Staring Contest Champ, Smad Prompto, Iggy’s Smolder, Broody Gladio

** 08\. Glass **

** Noct **

The return to the Hunter HQ is completely silent. All you can hear are the sounds of nocturnal animals just rousing, the hushed whisper of a cool breeze that stirs up a dust storm. Every time you swallow, it sounds like you do it over a megaphone. And with your position in Gladiolus’ arms, you can hear his strong, steady heartbeat along with the air that enters and leaves his lungs. 

When Noct buys you a potion, he does so moodily; so direct, tone clipped, face pinched in this bitter expression, his time as a human statue long forgotten even though it was merely minutes before. He’s so gloomy that the woman he barters with gives you all a concerned look before wishing you all a pleasant evening, eyebrow raised and wondering what the hell kind of day you all had. 

And the walk to the Regalia after you’re all spruced up from that nice potion and after Noct takes care of some business Cor turned him on to? Having lived in a relatively quiet place (basically a crypt with a really nice library), you’re used to long stretches of silence. Back at the Spire you’d go days without someone talking to you- not to say that you _liked_ it, but you’re just accustomed to the feeling. You’re accustomed to walking with people who act like they can’t speak, with relying on nonverbal interactions for days on end. 

However, you _aren’t_ accustomed to dead silence from _this_ bunch of guys. They’ve spoiled you with their attention, their laughter, every friendly touch and even the ones that send an odd thrill through you. And you’re about to snap when you realize that Noct insistently shoots you stealthy glances from beneath his raven bangs and yet he remains _silent_. It makes your skin prickle. 

What’s an awkward mage to do when the most talkative people they know are all silent and moody? You make a few jokes about your death, of course! Genius! As you’re sandwiched between the prince and his bodyguard, you ask if you fell dramatically when you died, if you made a pretty corpse, and all manner of totally inappropriate questions. Literally _no one_ finds any of this funny. At one point you think Ignis is going to pull over on the way to Hammerhead and tell you to get out and walk the rest of the way. In truth, you only crack wise because it bothers  you. Not the silence, but what just happened to you. 

Because you know, deep down, even as you breathe and feel and see... you _died_. You were there one moment and the next you were _gone_. And if Gladio hadn’t acted so quickly, you would’ve stayed that way. It happened so quickly. There was nothing you could do. In that moment, you were so utterly helpless, everything was out of your control- you realize you _never_ want to feel that way again. And the thing that bothers you the most is that if you had been just a bit slower to move, realized what the coeurl was doing a fraction of a second later, it could’ve been _Noctis_ who died. 

Every time you blink you see those silver eyes staring at you; that sad, patient smile. Every time you let your guard down you hear yourself fifteen years ago, curious and so oblivious of the immense weight of your duty. And you’d remained innocently oblivious until today. What was once a dream to you, the idea of serving as arcane advisor to _King_ Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, has become a yoke about your neck. How you’d romanticized your familial obligation even as you read about the grisly fate that befell most of your ancestors almost brings a sardonic scoff from you. 

You’d dreamed of being like intelligent Lumis the Enchanter and brave Aunt Lysandra. Lumis who was captured by Spire mages and beheaded in front of his children and Lysandra who was shot in the head and left to rot in a ditch before her barely recognizable body was found- nothing but sagging flesh, bone, and sinew for your family to mourn over before her body was burned. You wanted to be like them. And for the most fleeting of moments you _had been_. You had been _exactly_ like them. 

The air is cool now, the night sky glimmering with stars, the smell of oil and fried food wafting over you all in a warm embrace as you pull into Hammerhead and exit the Regalia. You depart from the others to sift through your things in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, pulling out clean clothes and a shower bag. Knuckles bang against something hard and cold. With a jolt, you realize your mother’s bottle of aged whiskey is nestled in your things. 

“ _Once a thief, always a thief,”_ you think blandly, eyeing the flaking label and wax seal on the cap. You heft the bottle out of storage and purse your lips, _“Who am I? (y/n) the Sneak Thief?”_

Yes. Yes, you are. 

You’re the first to shower because nobody lifts a finger to stop you. In truth, you take advantage of the doom and gloom to hit the showers before high-maintenance Prompto or bossy Noct- the only silver lining in this situation. The water runs red at your feet before turning orange and then clear, but the tang of blood still lingers in your nose. Steam billows from your skin the moment you exit the shower and the cool air hits you. Skin is soft and clean. Fingers glide up your stomach to rest on your chest, right on the spot where the coeurl’s whisker touched you as light as a feather. Eyes close and you sigh. 

When you all settle around the table outside of the caravan, you try to make idle chit-chat. The only ones who make an effort to reciprocate are Gladio, Iggy, and Prom. And honestly? It’s a bit unsettling for you to see that Noct’s face is so impassive, so eerily placid as he sits across from you at the table that you can’t find it in yourself to meet his eye. After a while, Noct starts to get back to his usual snarky self and for that you’re immensely grateful. That is until you realize that even when he’s talking to the others, his steely blue eyes are boldly fixed on you from beneath those raven bangs. He’s behaving as though he believes the moment he looks away from you you’ll disappear. So now, he’ll never look anywhere else. 

“ _Should I have stayed dead?”_

Everyone’s “secret” severity, the doom and gloom, coupled with your own burgeoning insecurities and fears... It’s becoming too much to handle. And the Prince of Cold Stares becomes the perfect target for your ire, since every time the conversation lulls he goes back to staring intently at you like he’s trying to make you combust. Fed up, you slam your cup of coffee down on the table and snap, “Six, Noct. Cheer up, will you? I said I'd die for you, didn't I?” When the prince does nothing but stare coldly at you, you add, “I mean, it happened a little _sooner_ than I would've liked. You're moving a bit too fast for me, Noct. Let's just go steady, hm?” 

“How long are you gonna joke about it?” Gladio grumbles, giving you the same cold look as Noctis. Nobody is as amused by your death as you pretend to be. Perhaps it’s because you didn’t have to witness one of your friends getting killed? Or perhaps it’s because it felt like it lasted a second to you while the others suffered through uncertainty for minutes (which felt like hours to them)? 

“As long as it takes for you guys to stop acting like I stayed dead. I’m _alive_. Stop making it seem like I died for real.” 

“You _did_ die for real!” Prompto shouts, slamming his hands on the table, and you’re stunned. The blond blinks in surprise at his own outburst, cheeks going red before he settles back into his chair. The silence is awkward now rather than gloomy. 

“Would you care to tell me about what you mentioned before?” Ignis suddenly asks, clearly trying to ease the tension. The tactician watches you with keen green eyes, coffee cup in hand now since everyone’s been banging on the table like it’s a drum. 

You furrow your brow. “About souls?” 

“Yes,” the bespectacled man confirms. 

“Oh,” you blink before chuckling nervously. But the nerves don’t last long. You’re a scholar at heart and Ignis knows this. Getting you to talk about history, or magic, or _magical history_ is the best way to get you to ease up. 

“Yeah, what was that about soul stealing?” Gladio chimes in, catching on to Ignis’ plot. The tactician gives him a thankful look which the bodyguard returns. 

Your body language changes markedly and the men are relieved. Rather than slouching you straighten your posture and raise your chin a bit. "’Soul stealing,’ or rather ‘absorption’ because one can’t take souls from the living- well...” you pause, “I’ll put a pin in _that one_ since it’s a very convoluted concept. Anyway, it was an ancient practice for enchanting by the Spire, believe it or not. Souls of creatures were used to imbue items with certain qualities and the Spire would sell those for a pretty gil. Iovitas have only used essences from things like the elements.” 

Iggy quirks one of his elegant eyebrows at you and queries, “How did the rumor about human souls come about, then?” 

“Human souls _were_ being used but it was the Spire who was doing it. When the king had the rumor investigated, the college deflected. Rather publicly, too. They pretty much forced the king’s hand to publicly shame Lumis the Enchanter. And once he was spurned by the Crown, he became an easier target for the Spire.” You sip your coffee and sigh dramatically before rolling your eyes over to Noct, “No hard feelings.” 

The prince grimaces. “Sorry.” 

“What did I _just_ say?” 

“One moment, if you will, (y/n),” Ignis gives you a funny look, genuinely curious. And who better for him to ask these questions of than Noct’s arcane advisor? “How were those mages able to absorb souls? If I recall correctly, the extent of the ‘magic’ that other mages can perform is in the realm herbalism and elemancy.” 

True... But the explanation for that is rather complicated and shrouded in mystery. It’s not anything anyone would find in a history book. But you have something better: Your family grimoire. You’ve been reading the tome religiously since you’ve been on the road with the guys. Morning and night, you crack it open to read your family’s secrets. Little did you know that their secrets would include _Spire_ secrets. A blessing in disguise. For when you help Noct accomplish his goal, you have enough blackmail to topple the Spire with or without him. One word from you and they’ll be finished. It brings a rather warm, fluttery sensation to your bitter little heart. 

Licking your lips, you explain with all the snark that’s become expected of you, “ _Once upon a time_ , mages made pacts with higher daemons. And then the Iovitas started _banishing_ those daemons. Another reason for the Spire to hate our guts. We crashed the party and they couldn’t do ‘magic’ anymore.” 

“Sorry, I’m still a little stuck on the soul stealing thing,” Prompto squirms in his seat, looking bothered. “I just thought it was a rumor or something when you first mentioned it. We never learned about it in school.” 

“Yeah,” Noct grimaces, “it’s creepy.” 

“A depraved practice, indeed. Aela the Banisher saw the end of those daemons.” 

Daemons that she speculated to be Messengers of Ifrit in the family grimoire. But you don’t say this. Why should you? Why _would_ you? It sounded crazy enough to tell them that Ramuh “made” your family from the Crystal. Why tell them that Ifrit put the Spire on the war path against your family by giving them the power to hunt and destroy the Iovitas with the promise of making the college flourish? Because that was what Aela speculated in those old pages. That was what Florus the Seer (fake seer, but a “seer” nonetheless) dreamed of in one of his many drunken stupors, foretelling the decimation of your family at the hands of the fallen Astral who would use humanity’s envy and greed to stoke a murderous fire in the heart of an ancient, prideful institution; using them to eradicate the protectors of the Lucian kings. 

At least you _think_ Florus did. His handwriting was kinda all over the place. And the validity of that claim is highly suspect considering it was sandwiched between a “prophecy” that amounted to nothing more than a weird plot for tentacle porn and another “prophecy” that was basically him predicting that he would drink himself to death. Florus pretty much used his portion of the grimoire as a dream diary, the weirdo. 

“Aren’t there necromancers and liches still around?” Prompto asks innocently and you choke on your coffee because you have no idea where _that_ came from. “I think I remember seeing a bounty poster for a necromancer...” 

“Those higher daemons weren’t like necromancers or liches,” you correct, voice rough. You put on that liar’s face and say, “There aren’t any images of them anywhere. And they’ve all been gone for a long time.” 

_“Are they all gone, though?”_

You shake off the thought, push away some long-forgotten memory. There’s a lull in the conversation and since you’re already tired of this "soul stealing" talk, you pounce at the opportunity to use it as a segue into something a bit more lighthearted. “Anyway, I think we all  had a long day, _so_...” you drawl and heft the bottle of liquor onto the table from where you’d been keeping it by your feet and out of sight. For comedic effect you grunt like it weighs a ton, earning a chuckle from Prom. This had been your plan all along when the guys were all down in the dumps. But Ignis had been so quick to supply everyone with coffee that you didn’t have the time to suggest you all get plastered- I mean, have a night cap. 

"Is that whiskey?" Gladio raises an eyebrow at you, looking impressed. 

"It was my mother's." You swirl the amber liquid around in the bottle. It's a pretty large bottle with enough whiskey to get five people trashed. Actually, if you’re being honest, it could last you all quite a while. Especially since it’s so strong. "I think we all need a drink after the day we’ve had." 

They couldn’t agree more. With the fall of Insomnia and your brush with death, everyone’s feeling like they went through the wringer. It doesn’t take long before your silver tongue effectively persuades at least Prompto and Gladio to drink more and more. Noct and Ignis abstain, settling on one drink that they nurse through the night. Pretty soon, the mood lifts and you all find yourselves playing dumb games. A game of Truth or Dare starts and stops abruptly after Gladio dares you to parkour off the side of the caravan and you hit your head on the pavement. Ignis hasn’t stopped glaring at the Shield since. 

And now? The name of the game is 20 Questions. Except you and Prom are too trashed to actually follow the rules and instead have started throwing random questions at everyone and demanding they answer _or else_. The penalty isn’t specified. In fact, there isn’t one. 

"What's the best photo you've ever taken?" You ask Prom from behind your cup, all smiles and flushed cheeks. 

"Huh." Prom looks thoughtful though his eyes are misty and a bit unfocused. "Tiny." 

"Huh?"  


Cornflower blue eyes blink rapidly and he clarifies with a slur, " _Uh..._ Pryna, a dog." 

"Cute," you sigh, leaning back into your chair, eyes hooded. 

"What's the most dangerous magic you've ever done?" Noct asks, eyes glinting from the light of the lamp on the table. 

There isn’t anything malicious in his question. He’s just joining in on the game since Prompto dragged him in with a question of “What color’s your underwear?” The answer, obviously, was “black.” But you've imbibed a bit too much liquid courage, or as your mother would correct: liquid stupidity. The previous conversation about such dark and forbidden magic immediately takes you somewhere you shouldn’t go. You're feeling bold when you shouldn't, daring when you should be cautious. Because there's a secret that you've never told. A darkness that you feared your mother could see in your eyes. And Drusa would surely blame herself if she found out. 

You remember the human skulls in Drusa’s office. You'd blanched and asked why she had those. She told you that the magister who had the office before her had been enthralled with a peculiar kind of magic. A dark kind. A _fascinating_ kind. The guys watch you intently. You haven't spoken for a while now, staring into the lamp’s light with your whiskey, the cup hanging loosely from your barely crooked fingers. "Necromancy." You finally blink and right your cup. "I tried my hand at necromancy once. After my grandfather and aunt died and the older magisters started dropping like flies soon after, I grew curious about death." 

"Did you... do it to anyone?" Prompto asks so softly you almost don't hear him. 

"Hm? _No_. My mother did her best to teach me- about death, I mean. Necromancy was always strictly forbidden after one of my ancestors brought his lover back to life and found that it... wasn't _exactly_ life." You sip your whiskey. It tastes like a pen exploded in your mouth. 

Ignis watches you closely. "What do you mean?" 

Eyes stray to him, try to get his lithe figure to focus. You blink slowly and answer even slower, "I was always told that there was a reason why only daemons- necromancers and liches in particular- performed necromancy... They don't _care_ about the state of what they bring back. They have no _emotional attachment_ to or _high regard_ for the people and the things they exhume.” 

“Whataya mean?” Gladio asks, sounding like he’s further from you than he really is. He holds his liquor like a champ, not even remotely fazed by the many shots of whiskey he’s had. At most, he’s buzzed. 

“When a creature is brought back from the dead, it's not like reviving someone with phoenix down in the middle of battle. Usually with necromancy, by the time the spell is successful and the offerings are accepted, decay has started or it's been a long time going." 

"Offerings?" Noct asks lowly, sounding more sober than he initially let on. 

_“Stop talking.”_

"Life and death?” You click your tongue, shake your head- _oof_ , you stop shaking your head because the world tilts. “That's tricky business when it comes to magic. You can't trade something for nothing. It's very arithmetic; magic usually is. And I guess I was lucky I just resurrected a toad." 

"You mean it _worked_?" Prompto chokes on his whiskey, damning himself for choosing exactly the wrong moment to take a drink. Tears spring to his eyes. 

_“Stop...”_

"Yes and _no_. Life is given but what killed the living in the first place...? You need to be ready to counteract it. Necromancy just brings something back, it doesn't come with a little panacea attached as a freebie. The toad had been poisoned by a student- gods she was absolute _shit_ at herbalism. I resurrected the toad, it lived, and then it died of the poison that remained in its system. Necromancy is funny that way. A little joke with hope." 

Gladio claps his hand on your back, rubs some warmth into you. "You okay, (y/n)?" 

You stare into the lamp, the fluorescent bulb that flickers almost imperceptibly seems to pulsate with light and warmth. It’s hypnotizing, mesmerizing. Soon, as you continue to stare, the _world_ seems to pulsate around it. After a moment, you close your eyes. 

You remember the voice that told you what it wanted from you, what it wanted to _take_ , a whisper in your ear, cold lips on your skin, clawed fingers curled at your spine like vines of fire. You remember how, at seven years old, you'd agreed to give nine years of your life all for a toad that didn't even live longer than a minute before dying painfully all over again. You can still hear the anguished, panicked noises it made when it sputtered to life. The froth that bubbled up from its mouth, eyes turning cloudy once more. You remember the breathy chuckle in your ear for your naïveté. A laugh for summoning what was once banished. The whiskey burns on the way down. 

"Yeah."

* * *

**Prompto**

The return to the Hunter HQ is completely silent. All you can hear are the sounds of nocturnal animals just rousing, the hushed whisper of a cool breeze that stirs up a dust storm. Every time you swallow, it sounds like you do it over a megaphone. And with your position in Gladiolus’ arms, you can hear his strong, steady heartbeat along with the air that enters and leaves his lungs. 

When Noct buys you a potion, he does so moodily; so direct, tone clipped, face pinched in this bitter expression, his time as a human statue long forgotten even though it was merely minutes before. He’s so gloomy that the woman he barters with gives you all a concerned look before wishing you all a pleasant evening, eyebrow raised and wondering what the hell kind of day you all had. 

And the walk to the Regalia after you’re all spruced up from that nice potion and after Noct takes care of some business Cor turned him on to? Having lived in a relatively quiet place (basically a crypt with a really nice library), you’re used to long stretches of silence. Back at the Spire you’d go days without someone talking to you- not to say that you _liked_ it, but you’re just accustomed to the feeling. You’re accustomed to walking with people who act like they can’t speak, with relying on nonverbal interactions for days on end. 

However, you _aren’t_ accustomed to dead silence from _this_ bunch of guys. They’ve spoiled you with their attention, their laughter, every friendly touch and even the ones that send an odd thrill through you. And you’re about to snap when you realize that every time Prompto looks at you he looks like he might burst into tears and yet he remains _silent_. It makes your skin prickle. 

What’s an awkward mage to do when the most talkative people they know are all silent and moody? You make a few jokes about your death, of course! Genius! As you’re sandwiched between the prince and his bodyguard, you ask if you fell dramatically when you died, if you made a pretty corpse, and all manner of totally inappropriate questions. Literally _no one_ finds any of this funny. At one point you think Ignis is going to pull over on the way to Hammerhead and tell you to get out and walk the rest of the way. In truth, you only crack wise because it bothers  you. Not the silence, but what just happened to you. 

Because you know, deep down, even as you breathe and feel and see... you _died_. You were there one moment and the next you were _gone_. And if Gladio hadn’t acted so quickly, you would’ve stayed that way. It happened so quickly. There was nothing you could do. In that moment, you were so utterly helpless, everything was out of your control- you realize you _never_ want to feel that way again. And the thing that bothers you the most is that if you had been just a bit slower to move, realized what the coeurl was doing a fraction of a second later, it could’ve been _Noctis_ who died. 

Every time you blink you see those silver eyes staring at you; that sad, patient smile. Every time you let your guard down you hear yourself fifteen years ago, curious and so oblivious of the immense weight of your duty. And you’d remained innocently oblivious until today. What was once a dream to you, the idea of serving as arcane advisor to King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, has become a yoke about your neck. How you’d romanticized your familial obligation even as you read about the grisly fate that befell most of your ancestors almost brings a sardonic scoff from you. 

You’d dreamed of being like intelligent Lumis the Enchanter and brave Aunt Lysandra. Lumis who was captured by Spire mages and beheaded in front of his children and Lysandra who was shot in the head and left to rot in a ditch before her barely recognizable body was found- nothing but sagging flesh, bone, and sinew for your family to mourn over before her body was burned. You wanted to be like them. And for the most fleeting of moments you _had been_. You had been _exactly_ like them. 

The air is cool now, the night sky glimmering with stars, the smell of oil and fried food wafting over you all in a warm embrace as you pull into Hammerhead and exit the Regalia. You depart from the others to sift through your things in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, pulling out clean clothes and a shower bag. Knuckles bang against something hard and cold. With a jolt, you realize your mother’s bottle of aged whiskey is nestled in your things. 

“ _Once a thief, always a thief,”_ you think blandly, eyeing the flaking label and wax seal on the cap. You heft the bottle out of storage and purse your lips, _“Who am I? (y/n) the Sneak Thief?”_

Yes. Yes, you are. 

You’re the first to shower because nobody lifts a finger to stop you. In truth, you take advantage of the doom and gloom to hit the showers before high-maintenance Prompto or bossy Noct- the only silver lining in this situation. The water runs red at your feet before turning orange and then clear, but the tang of blood still lingers in your nose. Steam billows from your skin the moment you exit the shower and the cool air hits you. Skin is soft and clean. Fingers glide up your stomach to rest on your chest, right on the spot where the coeurl’s whisker touched you as light as a feather. Eyes close and you sigh. 

When you all settle around the table outside of the caravan, you try to make idle chit-chat. The only ones who make an effort to reciprocate are Gladio, Iggy, and Noct. And honestly? It’s a bit unsettling for you to see Prom looking so sober, cornflower blue eyes hooded as he stares at you from beneath his blond eyelashes. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks downright pissed. After a while, Prom gets back to his bubbly, energetic self. He jokes around and shows you pictures. You think all is back to normal until the blond throws his arm across your shoulders, like usual, but then holds you firmly. There’s a tremble to his hand, an unspoken fear that if he lets go you’ll simply cease to exist. 

“ _Should I have stayed dead?”_

Everyone’s “secret” severity, the doom and gloom, coupled with your own burgeoning insecurities and fears... It’s becoming too much to handle. And the Prince of Cold Stares becomes the perfect target for your ire, since every time the conversation lulls he goes back to staring intently at you like he’s trying to make you combust. Fed up, you slam your cup of coffee down on the table and snap, “Six, Noct. Cheer up, will you? I said I'd die for you, didn't I?” When the prince does nothing but stare coldly at you, you add, “I mean, it happened a little _sooner_ than I would've liked. You're moving a bit too fast for me, Noct. Let's just go steady, hm?” 

“How long are you gonna joke about it?” Gladio grumbles, giving you the same cold look as Noctis. Nobody is as amused by your death as you pretend to be. Perhaps it’s because you didn’t have to witness one of your friends getting killed? Or perhaps it’s because it felt like it lasted a second to you while the others suffered through uncertainty for minutes (which felt like hours to them)? 

“As long as it takes for you guys to stop acting like I stayed dead. I’m _alive_. Stop making it seem like I died for real.” 

“You _did_ die for real!” Prompto shouts, slamming his hands on the table, and you’re stunned. The blond blinks in surprise at his own outburst, cheeks going red before he settles back into his chair. The silence is awkward now rather than gloomy. 

“Would you care to tell me about what you mentioned before?” Ignis suddenly asks, clearly trying to ease the tension. The tactician watches you with keen green eyes, coffee cup in hand now since everyone’s been banging on the table like it’s a drum. 

You furrow your brow. “About souls?” 

“Yes,” the bespectacled man confirms. 

“Oh,” you blink before chuckling nervously. But the nerves don’t last long. You’re a scholar at heart and Ignis knows this. Getting you to talk about history, or magic, or _magical history_ is the best way to get you to ease up. 

“Yeah, what was that about soul stealing?” Gladio chimes in, catching on to Ignis’ plot. The tactician gives him a thankful look which the bodyguard returns. 

Your body language changes markedly and the men are relieved. Rather than slouching you straighten your posture and raise your chin a bit. "’Soul stealing,’ or rather ‘absorption’ because one can’t take souls from the living- well...” you pause, “I’ll put a pin in _that one_ since it’s a very convoluted concept. Anyway, it was an ancient practice for enchanting by the Spire, believe it or not. Souls of creatures were used to imbue items with certain qualities and the Spire would sell those for a pretty gil. Iovitas have only used essences from things like the elements.” 

Iggy quirks one of his elegant eyebrows at you and queries, “How did the rumor about human souls come about, then?” 

“Human souls _were_ being used but it was the Spire who was doing it. When the king had the rumor investigated, the college deflected. Rather publicly, too. They pretty much forced the king’s hand to publicly shame Lumis the Enchanter. And once he was spurned by the Crown, he became an easier target for the Spire.” You sip your coffee and sigh dramatically before rolling your eyes over to Noct, “No hard feelings.” 

The prince grimaces. “Sorry.” 

“What did I _just_ say?” 

“One moment, if you will, (y/n),” Ignis gives you a funny look, genuinely curious. And who better for him to ask these questions of than Noct’s arcane advisor? “How were those mages able to absorb souls? If I recall correctly, the extent of the ‘magic’ that other mages can perform is in the realm herbalism and elemancy.” 

True... But the explanation for that is rather complicated and shrouded in mystery. It’s not anything anyone would find in a history book. But you have something better: Your family grimoire. You’ve been reading the tome religiously since you’ve been on the road with the guys. Morning and night, you crack it open to read your family’s secrets. Little did you know that their secrets would include _Spire_ secrets. A blessing in disguise. For when you help Noct accomplish his goal, you have enough blackmail to topple the Spire with or without him. One word from you and they’ll be finished. It brings a rather warm, fluttery sensation to your bitter little heart. 

Licking your lips, you explain with all the snark that’s become expected of you, “ _Once upon a time_ , mages made pacts with higher daemons. And then the Iovitas started _banishing_ those daemons. Another reason for the Spire to hate our guts. We crashed the party and they couldn’t do ‘magic’ anymore.” 

“Sorry, I’m still a little stuck on the soul stealing thing,” Prompto squirms in his seat, looking bothered. “I just thought it was a rumor or something when you first mentioned it. We never learned about it in school.” 

“Yeah,” Noct grimaces, “it’s creepy.” 

“A depraved practice, indeed. Aela the Banisher saw the end of those daemons.” 

Daemons that she speculated to be messengers of Ifrit in the family grimoire. But you don’t say this. Why should you? Why _would_ you? It sounded crazy enough to tell them that Ramuh “made” your family from the Crystal. Why tell them that Ifrit put the Spire on the war path against your family by giving them the power to hunt and destroy the Iovitas with the promise of making the college flourish? Because that was what Aela speculated in those old pages. That was what Florus the Seer (fake seer, but a “seer” nonetheless) dreamed of in one of his many drunken stupors, foretelling the decimation of your family at the hands of the fallen astral who would use humanity’s envy and greed to stoke a murderous fire in the heart of an ancient, prideful institution; using them to eradicate the protectors of the Lucian kings. 

At least you _think_ Florus did. His handwriting was kinda all over the place. And the validity of that claim is highly suspect considering it was sandwiched between a “prophecy” that amounted to nothing more than a weird plot for tentacle porn and another “prophecy” that was basically him predicting that he would drink himself to death. Florus pretty much used his portion of the grimoire as a dream diary, the weirdo. 

“Aren’t there necromancers and liches still around?” Prompto asks innocently and you choke on your coffee because you have no idea where _that_ came from. “I think I remember seeing a bounty poster for a necromancer...” 

“Those higher daemons weren’t like necromancers or liches,” you correct, voice rough. You put on that liar’s face and say, “There aren’t any images of them anywhere. And they’ve all been gone for a long time.” 

_“Are they all gone, though?”_

You shake off the thought, push away some long-forgotten memory. There’s a lull in the conversation and since you’re already tired of this "soul stealing" talk, you pounce at the opportunity to use it as a segue to something a bit more lighthearted. “Anyway, I think we all had  a long day, _so_...” you drawl and heft the bottle of liquor onto the table from where you’d been keeping it by your feet and out of sight. For comedic effect you grunt like it weighs a ton, earning a chuckle from Prom. This had been your plan all along when the guys were all down in the dumps. But Ignis had been so quick to supply everyone with coffee that you didn’t have the time to suggest you all get plastered- I mean, have a night cap. 

"Is that whiskey?" Gladio raises an eyebrow at you, looking impressed. 

"It was my mother's." You swirl the amber liquid around in the bottle. It's a pretty large bottle with enough whiskey to get five people trashed. Actually, if you’re being honest, it could last you all quite a while. Especially since it’s so strong. "I think we all need a drink after the day we’ve had." 

They couldn’t agree more. With the fall of Insomnia and your brush with death, everyone’s feeling like they went through the wringer. It doesn’t take long before your silver tongue effectively persuades at least Prompto and Gladio to drink more and more. Noct and Ignis abstain, settling on one drink that they nurse through the night. Pretty soon, the mood lifts and you all find yourselves playing dumb games. A game of truth or dare starts and stops abruptly after Gladio dares you to parkour off the side of the caravan and you hit your head on the pavement. Ignis hasn’t stopped glaring at the Shield since. 

And now? The name of the game is 20 Questions. Except you and Prom are too trashed to actually follow the rules and instead have started throwing random questions at everyone and demanding they answer _or else_. The penalty isn’t specified. In fact, there isn’t one. 

"What's the best photo you've ever taken?" You ask Prom from behind your cup, all smiles and flushed cheeks. 

"Huh." Prom looks thoughtful though his eyes are misty and a bit unfocused. "Tiny." 

"Huh?"  


Cornflower blue eyes blink rapidly and he clarifies with a slur, " _Uh..._ Pryna, a dog." 

"Cute," you sigh, leaning back into your chair, eyes hooded. 

"What's the most dangerous magic you've ever done?" Noct asks, eyes glinting from the light of the lamp on the table. 

There isn’t anything malicious in his question. He’s just joining in on the game since Prompto dragged him in with a question of “What color’s your underwear?” The answer, obviously, was “black.” But you've imbibed a bit too much liquid courage, or as your mother would correct: liquid stupidity. The previous conversation about such dark and forbidden magic immediately takes you somewhere you shouldn’t go. You're feeling bold when you shouldn't, daring when you should be cautious. Because there's a secret that you've never told. A darkness that you feared your mother could see in your eyes. And Drusa would surely blame herself if she found out. 

You remember the human skulls in Drusa’s office. You'd blanched and asked why she had those. She told you that the magister who had the office before her had been enthralled with a peculiar kind of magic. A dark kind. A _fascinating_ kind. The guys watch you intently. You haven't spoken for a while now, staring into the lamp’s light with your whiskey, the cup hanging loosely from your barely crooked fingers. "Necromancy." You finally blink and right your cup. "I tried my hand at necromancy once. After my grandfather and aunt died and the older magisters started dropping like flies soon after, I grew curious about death." 

"Did you... do it to anyone?" Prompto asks so softly you almost don't hear him. 

"Hm? _No_. My mother did her best to teach me- about death, I mean. Necromancy was always strictly forbidden after one of my ancestors brought his lover back to life and found that it... wasn't _exactly_ life." You sip your whiskey. It tastes like a pen exploded in your mouth. 

Ignis watches you closely. "What do you mean?" 

Eyes stray to him, try to get his lithe figure to focus. You blink slowly and answer even slower, "I was always told that there was a reason why only daemons- necromancers and liches in particular- performed necromancy... They don't _care_ about the state of what they bring back. They have no _emotional attachment_ to or _high regard_ for the people and the things they exhume.” 

“Whataya mean?” Gladio asks, sounding like he’s further from you than he really is. He holds his liquor like a champ, not even remotely fazed by the many shots of whiskey he’s had. At most, he’s buzzed. 

“When a creature is brought back from the dead, it's not like reviving someone with phoenix down in the middle of battle. Usually with necromancy, by the time the spell is successful and the offerings are accepted, decay has started or it's been a long time going." 

"Offerings?" Noct asks lowly, sounding more sober than he initially let on. 

_“Stop talking.”_

"Life and death?” You click your tongue, shake your head- _oof_ , you stop shaking your head because the world tilts. “That's tricky business when it comes to magic. You can't trade something for nothing. It's very arithmetic; magic usually is. And I guess I was lucky I just resurrected a toad." 

"You mean it _worked_?" Prompto chokes on his whiskey, damning himself for choosing exactly the wrong moment to take a drink. Tears spring to his eyes. 

_“Stop...”_

"Yes and _no_. Life is given but what killed the living in the first place...? You need to be ready to counteract it. Necromancy just brings something back, it doesn't come with a little panacea attached as a freebie. The toad had been poisoned by a student- gods she was absolute _shit_ at herbalism. I resurrected the toad, it lived, and then it died of the poison that remained in its system. Necromancy is funny that way. A little joke with hope." 

Gladio claps his hand on your back, rubs some warmth into you. "You okay, (y/n)?" 

You stare into the lamp, the fluorescent bulb that flickers almost imperceptibly seems to pulsate with light and warmth. It’s hypnotizing, mesmerizing. Soon, as you continue to stare, the _world_ seems to pulsate around it. After a moment, you close your eyes. 

You remember the voice that told you what it wanted from you, what it wanted to _take_ , a whisper in your ear, cold lips on your skin, clawed fingers curled at your spine like vines of fire. You remember how, at seven years old, you'd agreed to give nine years of your life all for a toad that didn't even live longer than a minute before dying painfully all over again. You can still hear the anguished, panicked noises it made when it sputtered to life. The froth that bubbled up from its mouth, eyes turning cloudy once more. You remember the breathy chuckle in your ear for your naïveté. A laugh for summoning what was once banished. The whiskey burns on the way down. 

"Yeah."

* * *

**Ignis**

The return to the Hunter HQ is completely silent. All you can hear are the sounds of nocturnal animals just rousing, the hushed whisper of a cool breeze that stirs up a dust storm. Every time you swallow, it sounds like you do it over a megaphone. And with your position in Gladiolus’ arms, you can hear his strong, steady heartbeat along with the air that enters and leaves his lungs. 

When Noct buys you a potion, he does so moodily; so direct, tone clipped, face pinched in this bitter expression, his time as a human statue long forgotten even though it was merely minutes before. He’s so gloomy that the woman he barters with gives you all a concerned look before wishing you all a pleasant evening, eyebrow raised and wondering what the hell kind of day you all had. 

And the walk to the Regalia after you’re all spruced up from that nice potion and after Noct takes care of some business Cor turned him on to? Having lived in a relatively quiet place (basically a crypt with a really nice library), you’re used to long stretches of silence. Back at the Spire you’d go days without someone talking to you- not to say that you _liked_ it, but you’re just accustomed to the feeling. You’re accustomed to walking with people who act like they can’t speak, with relying on nonverbal interactions for days on end. 

However, you _aren’t_ accustomed to dead silence from _this_ bunch of guys. They’ve spoiled you with their attention, their laughter, every friendly touch and even the ones that send an odd thrill through you. And you’re about to snap when you start to notice that each time Ignis glances at you in the rearview mirror his green eyes seem to burn you and yet he remains _silent_. It makes your skin prickle. 

What’s an awkward mage to do when the most talkative people they know are all silent and moody? You make a few jokes about your death, of course! Genius! As you’re sandwiched between the prince and his bodyguard, you ask if you fell dramatically when you died, if you  made a pretty corpse, and all manner of totally inappropriate questions. Literally _no one_ finds any of this funny. At one point you think Ignis is going to pull over on the way to Hammerhead and tell you to get out and walk the rest of the way. In truth, you only crack wise because it bothers you. Not the silence, but what just happened to you. 

Because you know, deep down, even as you breathe and feel and see... you _died_. You were there one moment and the next you were _gone_. And if Gladio hadn’t acted so quickly, you would’ve stayed that way. It happened so quickly. There was nothing you could do. In that moment, you were so utterly helpless, everything was out of your control- you realize you _never_ want to feel that way again. And the thing that bothers you the most is that if you had been just a bit slower to move, realized what the coeurl was doing a fraction of a second later, it could’ve been _Noctis_ who died. 

Every time you blink you see those silver eyes staring at you; that sad, patient smile. Every time you let your guard down you hear yourself fifteen years ago, curious and so oblivious of the immense weight of your duty. And you’d remained innocently oblivious until today. What was once a dream to you, the idea of serving as arcane advisor to King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, has become a yoke about your neck. How you’d romanticized your familial obligation even as you read about the grisly fate that befell most of your ancestors almost brings a sardonic scoff from you. 

You’d dreamed of being like intelligent Lumis the Enchanter and brave Aunt Lysandra. Lumis who was captured by Spire mages and beheaded in front of his children and Lysandra who was shot in the head and left to rot in a ditch before her barely recognizable body was found- nothing but sagging flesh, bone, and sinew for your family to mourn over before her body was burned. You wanted to be like them. And for the most fleeting of moments you _had been_. You had been _exactly_ like them. 

The air is cool now, the night sky glimmering with stars, the smell of oil and fried food wafting over you all in a warm embrace as you pull into Hammerhead and exit the Regalia. You depart from the others to sift through your things in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, pulling out clean clothes and a shower bag. Knuckles bang against something hard and cold. With a jolt, you realize your mother’s bottle of aged whiskey is nestled in your things. 

“ _Once a thief, always a thief,”_ you think blandly, eyeing the flaking label and wax seal on the cap. You heft the bottle out of storage and purse your lips, _“Who am I? (y/n) the Sneak Thief?”_

Yes. Yes, you are. 

You’re the first to shower because nobody lifts a finger to stop you. In truth, you take advantage of the doom and gloom to hit the showers before high-maintenance Prompto or bossy Noct- the only silver lining in this situation. The water runs red at your feet before turning orange and then clear, but the tang of blood still lingers in your nose. Steam billows from your skin the moment you exit the shower and the cool air hits you. Skin is soft and clean. Fingers glide up your stomach to rest on your chest, right on the spot where the coeurl’s whisker touched you as light as a feather. Eyes close and you sigh. 

When you all settle around the table outside of the caravan, you try to make idle chit-chat. The only ones who make an effort to reciprocate are Gladio, Noct, and Prom. And honestly? It’s a bit unsettling for you to see Ignis looking so severe. Those emerald eyes feel like a branding iron each time they flicker over you whenever you speak, burning into your skin right down to the bone. After a while, Ignis, for his part, starts to do a bang up job of trying to go about business as usual. He gets everyone a cup of coffee like he normally does... but the normality ends when he brushes his fingertips across your knuckles when he hands you your cup, like he’s trying to commit your warmth and the feeling of you to memory. 

“ _Should I have stayed dead?”_

Everyone’s “secret” severity, the doom and gloom, coupled with your own burgeoning insecurities and fears... It’s becoming too much to handle. And the Prince of Cold Stares becomes the perfect target for your ire, since every time the conversation lulls he goes back to staring intently at you like he’s trying to make you combust. Fed up, you slam your cup of coffee down on the table and snap, “Six, Noct. Cheer up, will you? I said I'd die for you, didn't I?” When the prince does nothing but stare coldly at you, you add, “I mean, it happened a little _sooner_ than I would've liked. You're moving a bit too fast for me, Noct. Let's just go steady, hm?” 

“How long are you gonna joke about it?” Gladio grumbles, giving you the same cold look as Noctis. Nobody is as amused by your death as you pretend to be. Perhaps it’s because you didn’t have to witness one of your friends getting killed? Or perhaps it’s because it felt like it lasted a second to you while the others suffered through uncertainty for minutes (which felt like hours to them)? 

“As long as it takes for you guys to stop acting like I stayed dead. I’m _alive_. Stop making it seem like I died for real.” 

“You _did_ die for real!” Prompto shouts, slamming his hands on the table, and you’re stunned. The blond blinks in surprise at his own outburst, cheeks going red before he settles back into his chair. The silence is awkward now rather than gloomy. 

“Would you care to tell me about what you mentioned before?” Ignis suddenly asks, clearly trying to ease the tension. The tactician watches you with keen green eyes, coffee cup in hand now since everyone’s been banging on the table like it’s a drum. 

You furrow your brow. “About souls?” 

“Yes,” the bespectacled man confirms. 

“Oh,” you blink before chuckling nervously. But the nerves don’t last long. You’re a scholar at heart and Ignis knows this. Getting you to talk about history, or magic, or _magical history_ is the best way to get you to ease up. 

“Yeah, what was that about soul stealing?” Gladio chimes in, catching on to Ignis’ plot. The tactician gives him a thankful look which the bodyguard returns. 

Your body language changes markedly and the men are relieved. Rather than slouching you straighten your posture and raise your chin a bit. "’Soul stealing,’ or rather ‘absorption’ because one can’t take souls from the living- well...” you pause, “I’ll put a pin in _that one_ since it’s a very convoluted concept. Anyway, it was an ancient practice for enchanting by the Spire, believe it or not. Souls of creatures were used to imbue items with certain qualities and the Spire would sell those for a pretty gil. Iovitas have only used essences from things like the elements.” 

Iggy quirks one of his elegant eyebrows at you and queries, “How did the rumor about human souls come about, then?” 

“Human souls _were_ being used but it was the Spire who was doing it. When the king had the rumor investigated, the college deflected. Rather publicly, too. They pretty much forced the king’s hand to publicly shame Lumis the Enchanter. And once he was spurned by the Crown, he became an easier target for the Spire.” You sip your coffee and sigh dramatically before rolling your eyes over to Noct, “No hard feelings.” 

The prince grimaces. “Sorry.” 

“What did I _just_ say?” 

“One moment, if you will, (y/n),” Ignis gives you a funny look, genuinely curious. And who better for him to ask these questions of than Noct’s arcane advisor? “How were those mages able to absorb souls? If I recall correctly, the extent of the ‘magic’ that other mages can perform is in the realm herbalism and elemancy.” 

True... But the explanation for that is rather complicated and shrouded in mystery. It’s not anything anyone would find in a history book. But you have something better: Your family grimoire. You’ve been reading the tome religiously since you’ve been on the road with the guys. Morning and night, you crack it open to read your family’s secrets. Little did you know that their secrets would include _Spire_ secrets. A blessing in disguise. For when you help Noct accomplish his goal, you have enough blackmail to topple the Spire with or without him. One word from you and they’ll be finished. It brings a rather warm, fluttery sensation to your bitter little heart. 

Licking your lips, you explain with all the snark that’s become expected of you, “ _Once upon a time_ , mages made pacts with higher daemons. And then the Iovitas started _banishing_ those daemons. Another reason for the Spire to hate our guts. We crashed the party and they couldn’t do ‘magic’ anymore.” 

“Sorry, I’m still a little stuck on the soul stealing thing,” Prompto squirms in his seat, looking bothered. “I just thought it was a rumor or something when you first mentioned it. We never learned about it in school.” 

“Yeah,” Noct grimaces, “it’s creepy.” 

“A depraved practice, indeed. Aela the Banisher saw the end of those daemons.” 

Daemons that she speculated to be messengers of Ifrit in the family grimoire. But you don’t say this. Why should you? Why _would_ you? It sounded crazy enough to tell them that Ramuh “made” your family from the Crystal. Why tell them that Ifrit put the Spire on the war path against your family by giving them the power to hunt and destroy the Iovitas with the promise of making the college flourish? Because that was what Aela speculated in those old pages. That was what Florus the Seer (fake seer, but a “seer” nonetheless) dreamed of in one of his many drunken stupors, foretelling the decimation of your family at the hands of the fallen astral who would use humanity’s envy and greed to stoke a murderous fire in the heart of an ancient, prideful institution; using them to eradicate the protectors of the Lucian kings. 

At least you _think_ Florus did. His handwriting was kinda all over the place. And the validity of that claim is highly suspect considering it was sandwiched between a “prophecy” that amounted to nothing more than a weird plot for tentacle porn and another “prophecy” that was basically him predicting that he would drink himself to death. Florus pretty much used his portion of the grimoire as a dream diary, the weirdo. 

“Aren’t there necromancers and liches still around?” Prompto asks innocently and you choke on your coffee because you have no idea where _that_ came from. “I think I remember seeing a bounty poster for a necromancer...” 

“Those higher daemons weren’t like necromancers or liches,” you correct, voice rough. You put on that liar’s face and say, “There aren’t any images of them anywhere. And they’ve all been gone for a long time.” 

“ _Are they all gone, though?”_

You shake off the thought, push away some long-forgotten memory. There’s a lull in the  conversation and since you’re already tired of this "soul stealing" talk, you pounce at the opportunity to use it as a segue into something a bit more lighthearted. “Anyway, I think we all had a long day, _so_...” you drawl and heft the bottle of liquor onto the table from where you’d been keeping it by your feet and out of sight. For comedic effect you grunt like it weighs a ton, earning a chuckle from Prom. This had been your plan all along when the guys were all down in the dumps. But Ignis had been so quick to supply everyone with coffee that you didn’t have the time to suggest you all get plastered- I mean, have a night cap. 

"Is that whiskey?" Gladio raises an eyebrow at you, looking impressed. 

"It was my mother's." You swirl the amber liquid around in the bottle. It's a pretty large bottle with enough whiskey to get five people trashed. Actually, if you’re being honest, it could last you all quite a while. Especially since it’s so strong. "I think we all need a drink after the day we’ve had." 

They couldn’t agree more. With the fall of Insomnia and your brush with death, everyone’s feeling like they went through the wringer. It doesn’t take long before your silver tongue effectively persuades at least Prompto and Gladio to drink more and more. Noct and Ignis abstain, settling on one drink that they nurse through the night. Pretty soon, the mood lifts and you all find yourselves playing dumb games. A game of Truth or Dare starts and stops abruptly after Gladio dares you to parkour off the side of the caravan and you hit your head on the pavement. Ignis hasn’t stopped glaring at the Shield since. 

And now? The name of the game is 20 Questions. Except you and Prom are too trashed to actually follow the rules and instead have started throwing random questions at everyone and demanding they answer _or else_. The penalty isn’t specified. In fact, there isn’t one. 

"What's the best photo you've ever taken?" You ask Prom from behind your cup, all smiles and flushed cheeks. 

"Huh." Prom looks thoughtful though his eyes are misty and a bit unfocused. "Tiny." 

"Huh?"  


Cornflower blue eyes blink rapidly and he clarifies with a slur, " _Uh..._ Pryna, a dog." 

"Cute," you sigh, leaning back into your chair, eyes hooded. 

"What's the most dangerous magic you've ever done?" Noct asks, eyes glinting from the light of the lamp on the table. 

There isn’t anything malicious in his question. He’s just joining in on the game since Prompto dragged him in with a question of “What color’s your underwear?” The answer, obviously, was “black.” But you've imbibed a bit too much liquid courage, or as your mother would correct: liquid stupidity. The previous conversation about such dark and forbidden magic immediately takes you somewhere you shouldn’t go. You're feeling bold when you shouldn't, daring when you should be cautious. Because there's a secret that you've never told. A darkness that you feared your mother could see in your eyes. And Drusa would surely blame herself if she found out. 

You remember the human skulls in Drusa’s office. You'd blanched and asked why she had those. She told you that the magister who had the office before her had been enthralled with a peculiar kind of magic. A dark kind. A _fascinating_ kind. The guys watch you intently. You haven't spoken for a while now, staring into the lamp’s light with your whiskey, the cup hanging loosely from your barely crooked fingers. "Necromancy." You finally blink and right your cup. "I tried my hand at necromancy once. After my grandfather and aunt died and the older magisters started dropping like flies soon after, I grew curious about death." 

"Did you... do it to anyone?" Prompto asks so softly you almost don't hear him. 

"Hm? _No_. My mother did her best to teach me- about death, I mean. Necromancy was always strictly forbidden after one of my ancestors brought his lover back to life and found that it... wasn't _exactly_ life." You sip your whiskey. It tastes like a pen exploded in your mouth. 

Ignis watches you closely. "What do you mean?" 

Eyes stray to him, try to get his lithe figure to focus. You blink slowly and answer even slower, "I was always told that there was a reason why only daemons- necromancers and liches in particular- performed necromancy... They don't _care_ about the state of what they bring back. They have no _emotional attachment_ to or _high regard_ for the people and the things they exhume.” 

“Whataya mean?” Gladio asks, sounding like he’s further from you than he really is. He holds his liquor like a champ, not even remotely fazed by the many shots of whiskey he’s had. At most, he’s buzzed. 

“When a creature is brought back from the dead, it's not like reviving someone with phoenix down in the middle of battle. Usually with necromancy, by the time the spell is successful and the offerings are accepted, decay has started or it's been a long time going." 

"Offerings?" Noct asks lowly, sounding more sober than he initially let on. 

“ _Stop talking.”_

"Life and death?” You click your tongue, shake your head- _oof_ , you stop shaking your head because the world tilts. “That's tricky business when it comes to magic. You can't trade something for nothing. It's very arithmetic; magic usually is. And I guess I was lucky I just resurrected a toad." 

"You mean it _worked_?" Prompto chokes on his whiskey, damning himself for choosing exactly the wrong moment to take a drink. Tears spring to his eyes. 

“ _Stop...”_

"Yes and _no_. Life is given but what killed the living in the first place...? You need to be ready to counteract it. Necromancy just brings something back, it doesn't come with a little panacea attached as a freebie. The toad had been poisoned by a student- gods she was absolute _shit_ at herbalism. I resurrected the toad, it lived, and then it died of the poison that remained in its system. Necromancy is funny that way. A little joke with hope." 

Gladio claps his hand on your back, rubs some warmth into you. "You okay, (y/n)?" 

You stare into the lamp, the fluorescent bulb that flickers almost imperceptibly seems to pulsate with light and warmth. It’s hypnotizing, mesmerizing. Soon, as you continue to stare, the _world_ seems to pulsate around it. After a moment, you close your eyes. 

You remember the voice that told you what it wanted from you, what it wanted to _take_ , a whisper in your ear, cold lips on your skin, clawed fingers curled at your spine like vines of fire. You remember how, at seven years old, you'd agreed to give nine years of your life all for a toad that didn't even live longer than a minute before dying painfully all over again. You can still hear the anguished, panicked noises it made when it sputtered to life. The froth that bubbled up from its mouth, eyes turning cloudy once more. You remember the breathy chuckle in your ear for your naïveté. A laugh for summoning what was once banished. The whiskey burns on the way down. 

"Yeah."

* * *

**Gladiolus**

The return to the Hunter HQ is completely silent. All you can hear are the sounds of nocturnal animals just rousing, the hushed whisper of a cool breeze that stirs up a dust storm. Every time you swallow, it sounds like you do it over a megaphone. And with your position in Gladiolus’ arms, you can hear his strong, steady heartbeat along with the air that enters and leaves his lungs. 

When Noct buys you a potion, he does so moodily; so direct, tone clipped, face pinched in this bitter expression, his time as a human statue long forgotten even though it was merely minutes before. He’s so gloomy that the woman he barters with gives you all a concerned look before wishing you all a pleasant evening, eyebrow raised and wondering what the hell kind of day you all had. 

And the walk to the Regalia after you’re all spruced up from that nice potion and after Noct takes care of some business Cor turned him on to? Having lived in a relatively quiet place (basically a crypt with a really nice library), you’re used to long stretches of silence. Back at the Spire you’d go days without someone talking to you- not to say that you _liked_ it, but you’re just accustomed to the feeling. You’re accustomed to walking with people who act like they can’t speak, with relying on nonverbal interactions for days on end. 

However, you _aren’t_ accustomed to dead silence from _this_ bunch of guys. They’ve spoiled you with their attention, their laughter, every friendly touch and even the ones that send an odd thrill through you. And you’re about to snap when you realize that Gladio keeps stealing these long glances at you from the corner of his eye and yet he remains _silent_. It makes your skin prickle. 

What’s an awkward mage to do when the most talkative people they know are all silent and moody? You make a few jokes about your death, of course! Genius! As you’re sandwiched between the prince and his bodyguard, you ask if you fell dramatically when you died, if you made a pretty corpse, and all manner of totally inappropriate questions. Literally _no one_ finds any  of this funny. At one point you think Ignis is going to pull over on the way to Hammerhead and tell you to get out and walk the rest of the way. In truth, you only crack wise because it bothers you. Not the silence, but what just happened to you. 

Because you know, deep down, even as you breathe and feel and see... you _died_. You were there one moment and the next you were _gone_. And if Gladio hadn’t acted so quickly, you would’ve stayed that way. It happened so quickly. There was nothing you could do. In that moment, you were so utterly helpless, everything was out of your control- you realize you _never_ want to feel that way again. And the thing that bothers you the most is that if you had been just a bit slower to move, realized what the coeurl was doing a fraction of a second later, it could’ve been _Noctis_ who died. 

Every time you blink you see those silver eyes staring at you; that sad, patient smile. Every time you let your guard down you hear yourself fifteen years ago, curious and so oblivious of the immense weight of your duty. And you’d remained innocently oblivious until today. What was once a dream to you, the idea of serving as arcane advisor to King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV, has become a yoke about your neck. How you’d romanticized your familial obligation even as you read about the grisly fate that befell most of your ancestors almost brings a sardonic scoff from you. 

You’d dreamed of being like intelligent Lumis the Enchanter and brave Aunt Lysandra. Lumis who was captured by Spire mages and beheaded in front of his children and Lysandra who was shot in the head and left to rot in a ditch before her barely recognizable body was found- nothing but sagging flesh, bone, and sinew for your family to mourn over before her body was burned. You wanted to be like them. And for the most fleeting of moments you _had been_. You had been _exactly_ like them. 

The air is cool now, the night sky glimmering with stars, the smell of oil and fried food wafting over you all in a warm embrace as you pull into Hammerhead and exit the Regalia. You depart from the others to sift through your things in Choco Jr.’s storage tail, pulling out clean clothes and a shower bag. Knuckles bang against something hard and cold. With a jolt, you realize your mother’s bottle of aged whiskey is nestled in your things. 

“ _Once a thief, always a thief,”_ you think blandly, eyeing the flaking label and wax seal on the cap. You heft the bottle out of storage and purse your lips, _“Who am I? (y/n) the Sneak Thief?”_

Yes. Yes, you are. 

You’re the first to shower because nobody lifts a finger to stop you. In truth, you take advantage of the doom and gloom to hit the showers before high-maintenance Prompto or bossy Noct- the only silver lining in this situation. The water runs red at your feet before turning orange and then clear, but the tang of blood still lingers in your nose. Steam billows from your skin the moment you exit the shower and the cool air hits you. Skin is soft and clean. Fingers glide up your stomach to rest on your chest, right on the spot where the coeurl’s whisker touched you as light as a feather. Eyes close and you sigh. 

When you all settle around the table outside of the caravan, you try to make idle chit-chat. The only ones who make an effort to reciprocate are Noct, Iggy, and Prom. And honestly? It’s a bit unsettling for you to see Gladio looking so withdrawn. Usually he always has a grin to throw you, but now his face is stony. Every now and then you get a hint of amber, but by the time you look his way he’s back to looking at the others. After a while, Gladiolus starts to do pretty damn well acting like everything is fine and like he wasn’t about to lose his mind when you wouldn’t start breathing not so long ago. At least, you _think_ he’s doing fine until he purposely bumps his knee against yours under the table and just keeps it there, like he needs to feel you to know that you’re there. 

“ _Should I have stayed dead?”_

Everyone’s “secret” severity, the doom and gloom, coupled with your own burgeoning insecurities and fears... It’s becoming too much to handle. And the Prince of Cold Stares becomes the perfect target for your ire, since every time the conversation lulls he goes back to staring intently at you like he’s trying to make you combust. Fed up, you slam your cup of coffee down on the table and snap, “Six, Noct. Cheer up, will you? I said I'd die for you, didn't I?” When the prince does nothing but stare coldly at you, you add, “I mean, it happened a little _sooner_ than I would've liked. You're moving a bit too fast for me, Noct. Let's just go steady, hm?” 

“How long are you gonna joke about it?” Gladio grumbles, giving you the same cold look as Noctis. Nobody is as amused by your death as you pretend to be. Perhaps it’s because you didn’t have to witness one of your friends getting killed? Or perhaps it’s because it felt like it lasted a second to you while the others suffered through uncertainty for minutes (which felt like hours to them)? 

“As long as it takes for you guys to stop acting like I stayed dead. I’m _alive_. Stop making it seem like I died for real.” 

“You _did_ die for real!” Prompto shouts, slamming his hands on the table, and you’re stunned. The blond blinks in surprise at his own outburst, cheeks going red before he settles back into his chair. The silence is awkward now rather than gloomy. 

“Would you care to tell me about what you mentioned before?” Ignis suddenly asks, clearly trying to ease the tension. The tactician watches you with keen green eyes, coffee cup in hand now since everyone’s been banging on the table like it’s a drum. 

You furrow your brow. “About souls?” 

“Yes,” the bespectacled man confirms. 

“Oh,” you blink before chuckling nervously. But the nerves don’t last long. You’re a scholar at heart and Ignis knows this. Getting you to talk about history, or magic, or _magical history_ is the best way to get you to ease up. 

“Yeah, what was that about soul stealing?” Gladio chimes in, catching on to Ignis’ plot. The tactician gives him a thankful look which the bodyguard returns. 

Your body language changes markedly and the men are relieved. Rather than slouching you straighten your posture and raise your chin a bit. "’Soul stealing,’ or rather ‘absorption’ because one can’t take souls from the living- well...” you pause, “I’ll put a pin in _that one_ since it’s a very convoluted concept. Anyway, it was an ancient practice for enchanting by the Spire, believe it or not. Souls of creatures were used to imbue items with certain qualities and the Spire would sell those for a pretty gil. Iovitas have only used essences from things like the elements.” 

Iggy quirks one of his elegant eyebrows at you and queries, “How did the rumor about human souls come about, then?” 

“Human souls _were_ being used but it was the Spire who was doing it. When the king had the rumor investigated, the college deflected. Rather publicly, too. They pretty much forced the king’s hand to publicly shame Lumis the Enchanter. And once he was spurned by the Crown, he became an easier target for the Spire.” You sip your coffee and sigh dramatically before rolling your eyes over to Noct, “No hard feelings.” 

The prince grimaces. “Sorry.” 

“What did I _just_ say?” 

“One moment, if you will, (y/n),” Ignis gives you a funny look, genuinely curious. And who better for him to ask these questions of than Noct’s arcane advisor? “How were those mages able to absorb souls? If I recall correctly, the extent of the ‘magic’ that other mages can perform is in the realm herbalism and elemancy.” 

True... But the explanation for that is rather complicated and shrouded in mystery. It’s not anything anyone would find in a history book. But you have something better: Your family grimoire. You’ve been reading the tome religiously since you’ve been on the road with the guys. Morning and night, you crack it open to read your family’s secrets. Little did you know that their secrets would include _Spire_ secrets. A blessing in disguise. For when you help Noct accomplish his goal, you have enough blackmail to topple the Spire with or without him. One word from you and they’ll be finished. It brings a rather warm, fluttery sensation to your bitter little heart. 

Licking your lips, you explain with all the snark that’s become expected of you, “ _Once upon a time_ , mages made pacts with higher daemons. And then the Iovitas started _banishing_ those daemons. Another reason for the Spire to hate our guts. We crashed the party and they couldn’t do ‘magic’ anymore.” 

“Sorry, I’m still a little stuck on the soul stealing thing,” Prompto squirms in his seat, looking bothered. “I just thought it was a rumor or something when you first mentioned it. We never learned about it in school.” 

“Yeah,” Noct grimaces, “it’s creepy.” 

“A depraved practice, indeed. Aela the Banisher saw the end of those daemons.” 

Daemons that she speculated to be messengers of Ifrit in the family grimoire. But you don’t say this. Why should you? Why _would_ you? It sounded crazy enough to tell them that Ramuh “made” your family from the Crystal. Why tell them that Ifrit put the Spire on the war path against your family by giving them the power to hunt and destroy the Iovitas with the promise of making the college flourish? Because that was what Aela speculated in those old pages. That was what Florus the Seer (fake seer, but a “seer” nonetheless) dreamed of in one of his many drunken stupors, foretelling the decimation of your family at the hands of the fallen astral who would use humanity’s envy and greed to stoke a murderous fire in the heart of an ancient, prideful institution; using them to eradicate the protectors of the Lucian kings. 

At least you _think_ Florus did. His handwriting was kinda all over the place. And the validity of that claim is highly suspect considering it was sandwiched between a “prophecy” that amounted to nothing more than a weird plot for tentacle porn and another “prophecy” that was basically him predicting that he would drink himself to death. Florus pretty much used his portion of the grimoire as a dream diary, the weirdo. 

“Aren’t there necromancers and liches still around?” Prompto asks innocently and you choke on your coffee because you have no idea where _that_ came from. “I think I remember seeing a bounty poster for a necromancer...” 

“Those higher daemons weren’t like necromancers or liches,” you correct, voice rough. You put on that liar’s face and say, “There aren’t any images of them anywhere. And they’ve all been gone for a long time.” 

“ _Are they all gone, though?”  
_

You shake off the thought, push away some long-forgotten memory. There’s a lull in the  conversation and since you’re already tired of this "soul stealing" talk, you pounce at the opportunity to use it as a segue into something a bit more lighthearted. “Anyway, I think we all had a long day, _so_...” you drawl and heft the bottle of liquor onto the table from where you’d been keeping it by your feet and out of sight. For comedic effect you grunt like it weighs a ton, earning a chuckle from Prom. This had been your plan all along when the guys were all down in the dumps. But Ignis had been so quick to supply everyone with coffee that you didn’t have the time to suggest you all get plastered- I mean, have a night cap. 

"Is that whiskey?" Gladio raises an eyebrow at you, looking impressed. 

"It was my mother's." You swirl the amber liquid around in the bottle. It's a pretty large bottle with enough whiskey to get five people trashed. Actually, if you’re being honest, it could last you all quite a while. Especially since it’s so strong. "I think we all need a drink after the day we’ve had." 

They couldn’t agree more. With the fall of Insomnia and your brush with death, everyone’s feeling like they went through the wringer. It doesn’t take long before your silver tongue effectively persuades at least Prompto and Gladio to drink more and more. Noct and Ignis abstain, settling on one drink that they nurse through the night. Pretty soon, the mood lifts and you all find yourselves playing dumb games. A game of Truth or Dare starts and stops abruptly after Gladio dares you to parkour off the side of the caravan and you hit your head on the pavement. Ignis hasn’t stopped glaring at the Shield since. 

And now? The name of the game is 20 Questions. Except you and Prom are too trashed to actually follow the rules and instead have started throwing random questions at everyone and demanding they answer _or else_. The penalty isn’t specified. In fact, there isn’t one. 

"What's the best photo you've ever taken?" You ask Prom from behind your cup, all smiles and flushed cheeks. 

"Huh." Prom looks thoughtful though his eyes are misty and a bit unfocused. "Tiny." 

"Huh?"  


Cornflower blue eyes blink rapidly and he clarifies with a slur, " _Uh..._ Pryna, a dog." 

"Cute," you sigh, leaning back into your chair, eyes hooded. 

"What's the most dangerous magic you've ever done?" Noct asks, eyes glinting from the light of the lamp on the table. 

There isn’t anything malicious in his question. He’s just joining in on the game since Prompto dragged him in with a question of “What color’s your underwear?” The answer, obviously, was “black.” But you've imbibed a bit too much liquid courage, or as your mother would correct: liquid stupidity. The previous conversation about such dark and forbidden magic immediately takes you somewhere you shouldn’t go. You're feeling bold when you shouldn't, daring when you should be cautious. Because there's a secret that you've never told. A darkness that you feared your mother could see in your eyes. And Drusa would surely blame herself if she found out. 

You remember the human skulls in Drusa’s office. You'd blanched and asked why she had those. She told you that the magister who had the office before her had been enthralled with a peculiar kind of magic. A dark kind. A _fascinating_ kind. The guys watch you intently. You haven't spoken for a while now, staring into the lamp’s light with your whiskey, the cup hanging loosely from your barely crooked fingers. "Necromancy." You finally blink and right your cup. "I tried my hand at necromancy once. After my grandfather and aunt died and the older magisters started dropping like flies soon after, I grew curious about death." 

"Did you... do it to anyone?" Prompto asks so softly you almost don't hear him. 

"Hm? _No_. My mother did her best to teach me- about death, I mean. Necromancy was always strictly forbidden after one of my ancestors brought his lover back to life and found that it... wasn't _exactly_ life." You sip your whiskey. It tastes like a pen exploded in your mouth. 

Ignis watches you closely. "What do you mean?" 

Eyes stray to him, try to get his lithe figure to focus. You blink slowly and answer even slower, "I was always told that there was a reason why only daemons- necromancers and liches in particular- performed necromancy... They don't _care_ about the state of what they bring back. They have no _emotional attachment_ to or _high regard_ for the people and the things they exhume.” 

“Whataya mean?” Gladio asks, sounding like he’s further from you than he really is. He holds his liquor like a champ, not even remotely fazed by the many shots of whiskey he’s had. At most, he’s buzzed. 

“When a creature is brought back from the dead, it's not like reviving someone with phoenix down in the middle of battle. Usually with necromancy, by the time the spell is successful and the offerings are accepted, decay has started or it's been a long time going." 

"Offerings?" Noct asks lowly, sounding more sober than he initially let on. 

“ _Stop talking.”_

"Life and death?” You click your tongue, shake your head- _oof_ , you stop shaking your head because the world tilts. “That's tricky business when it comes to magic. You can't trade something for nothing. It's very arithmetic; magic usually is. And I guess I was lucky I just resurrected a toad." 

"You mean it _worked_?" Prompto chokes on his whiskey, damning himself for choosing exactly the wrong moment to take a drink. Tears spring to his eyes. 

“ _Stop...”_

"Yes and _no_. Life is given but what killed the living in the first place...? You need to be ready to counteract it. Necromancy just brings something back, it doesn't come with a little panacea attached as a freebie. The toad had been poisoned by a student- gods she was absolute _shit_ at herbalism. I resurrected the toad, it lived, and then it died of the poison that remained in its system. Necromancy is funny that way. A little joke with hope." 

Gladio claps his hand on your back, rubs some warmth into you. "You okay, (y/n)?" 

You stare into the lamp, the fluorescent bulb that flickers almost imperceptibly seems to pulsate with light and warmth. It’s hypnotizing, mesmerizing. Soon, as you continue to stare, the _world_ seems to pulsate around it. After a moment, you close your eyes. 

You remember the voice that told you what it wanted from you, what it wanted to _take_ , a whisper in your ear, cold lips on your skin, clawed fingers curled at your spine like vines of fire. You remember how, at seven years old, you'd agreed to give nine years of your life all for a toad that didn't even live longer than a minute before dying painfully all over again. You can still hear the anguished, panicked noises it made when it sputtered to life. The froth that bubbled up from its mouth, eyes turning cloudy once more. You remember the breathy chuckle in your ear for your naïveté. A laugh for summoning what was once banished. The whiskey burns on the way down. 

"Yeah."


	15. Noctis: Smoke & Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Hi there! :) I absolutely love your writing, and recently got through reading Stillness Speaks. I was wondering if I could request an idea for another ficlet? A certain part (cough-Noct being salty over Reader conning him out of pastries-cough) made me want to see Reader in action, and Noctis being unable to refuse every time. So one time the Reader pulls it again, and departs with pastries in hand and leaves a kiss on Noct's cheek as they go~ (This sounded much better in my head I promise <3)_
> 
> And so we begin.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Mage Magnetism, Inappropriate Touching, Greedy Noct, Like Stealing Sweets from a Prince

** Smoke & Mirrors  **

“Here we are.” 

Ignis’ proud tone has your eyes flickering up from your grimoire. Though you’d been trying your best to appear like a dutiful little scholar with your nose in a book, that nose of yours couldn’t help but distract you.  The rich aroma of simmered berries and the tang of lemon rind has had you reading the same sentence for the past hour and a half as Iggy prepped and baked the dessert. 

The bespectacled man sits a plate of perfectly flaky pastries dusted with a fine layer of powdered sugar down on the table at camp. Eyes watch eagerly as he plates them perfectly.  Your mouth immediately begins to water when you see the side of berries and homemade ice cream. Honestly, you have _no_ idea how he makes half the stuff he does at camp.  Maybe he’s a mage, too? 

“Wow! That smells _great_!” Prom gushes, making his way over to the table, grabbing you- his partner in crime when it comes to Ignis’ desserts- by the sleeve as he goes, pulling you off of your folding chair after him.  Before you two can make it to the table, so excited just _thinking_ about trying out another one of Ignis’ recipes, Noct descends on the pastries out of nowhere like a spider from a tree and takes two of the five sweets for himself. 

Ignis sighs as the prince skulks off to go recline against his Chocobo. He’s immediately on his phone, scrolling through some forum about fishing or some nonsense.  Something _lame_ , you’re sure. 

Prompto makes a soft whine in the back of his throat as he turns his cornflower blue eyes from his best friend to the three remaining tarts on the table. Sometimes, the prince can be downright inconsiderate.  Usually he’s a peach, sure. He’s _somewhat_ standoffish. But when sweets come into play? The guy is ice cold. Every now and then you feel like he’d sell you all out for one damn fine pastry. 

Clicking your tongue, you cut your eyes to Prom and say, “By the end of the night, I’m eating two pastries.” 

The blond blinks in surprise, “Huh? There’s only-” 

“Just _watch me_ ,” you insist, raising your eyebrows with a smirk that gets the sharpshooter smirking. 

“(y/n), please,” Ignis immediately tries to talk you down, fearing the headache he’s going to have to endure when Noct inevitably starts throwing petty shade your way for the next couple of days for stealing his food. “I can make mo-” 

“We can split one, (y/n),” Gladio interrupts, just coming back from a jog- he’s _just_ in time, it’s nearly nightfall. But he’s only heard the back-end of the conversation, wiping sweat from his brow and pulling his hair out of its tie. 

The bodyguard is already used to splitting food with you, be it actual meals or stuff that makes Ignis glower at you two.  The two of you have a shared fondness for some of the most hellacious junk food that none of the other guys would _dare_ touch; eel pretzels, bacon potato cup noodles, and candied squid, just to name a few. 

But when Gladio sees the Prince in Black with two pastries on his lap, his lips thin into a hard line and he corrects himself, “Well, that’s what I _would_ say. But suddenly I’m feelin’ pretty hungry after that workout.” Amber eyes meet yours, the two of you sharing an evil look, “Do what you gotta do, (y/n).” 

If there’s one thing that can be said about you, it’s that you’re a _master manipulator_. Kinda funny, since you’re the most awkward conversationalist when it comes down to one-on-one chats.  But when there’s something you want or if you’re trying to get one over on someone, you’re a little silver-tongued devil. Probably a product of growing up surrounded by people who loathed you.  You _had_ to be charming. It’s a defense mechanism. When avoiding confrontation fails, you sharpen your tongue and get to  work. 

Like those lizards that squirt blood out of their eye. Except _you_ talk circles around people and can probably get them to sell you their soul if you want. It’s all a ruse. A carefully contrived ruse. One that you can’t maintain for _too_ long.  So when you swagger on up to Noct, you plaster on the most dazzling grin you own and make sure he sees it before you plop down next to him. You’re casual with a capital “C.”  And, even though the two of you have done this dance a million times, the prince is always disarmed by that winning grin and that oddly hypnotizing strut of yours. 

“Noct,” you greet to get his attention even though that’s _totally_ unnecessary- he’s been watching you with those intense, steely eyes from beneath his raven bangs since you started walking in his direction, “how’s it going?” 

“It’s goin’,” he replies, absent-mindedly scrolling through his phone just so he doesn’t look _too_ attentive. 

As you guessed, he’s on a forum where people are discussing the best fishing spots in the area. It just takes a glance hidden beneath your lashes to spy what’s on his phone’s screen.  A sly smirk crawls its way across your face and you clear your throat elegantly before stating, “I heard the weather should be perfect for fishing tomorrow.” 

The prince immediately perks up. “Yeah?” 

You nod sagely, “Mmhm.” 

“I didn’t know you liked fishing, (y/n).” Noct tilts his head. “Why didn’t you ever say anything before?” 

“Fishing is _your_ thing like the way buying books everywhere we go is _my_ thing,” you shrug dismissively before giving his knee a friendly pat.  You leave your hand there. His cheeks blossom a very faint pink. 

Noct clears his throat and replies, voice a bit deeper, “Well, tomorrow we’ll pick you up a rod and you can fish with me. That way we’ll have a better chance of catching dinner.” 

Hand glides up his thigh but you keep eye contact. It’s just a couple of inches before your fingers bump against the flaky crust of one of the tarts.  Noct is a bit more focused on the sensation of your hand gently resting on his thigh that when you remove it, tart in tow, he’s busy mourning the loss of contact to notice you eating the pastry right in his face.  After inhaling the tart (oh, _Six_ , it’s wonderful), you put your hand back on his knee for round two. 

“Yeah?” You pick the conversation back up as you repeat the thievery, eyes flickering to his  reddening cheeks. “Would you teach me? I’ve never had the opportunity to fish before.” 

“Ye-Yeah. Of course.” Noct tries to shrug indifferently, like it’s no big thing, when in reality...? He’s. Freaking. _Out_.  


“Cool,” you reply easily, bringing the tart up to your mouth and taking a healthy bite.  You relish the contrasting flavors of sweet berries and tart lemon. The crust is perfectly flaky and buttery. And the prince is too busy watching the way you lick the berry filling from your fingers to realize that you’re _eating his damn pastries_. 

Then it clicks. 

“Dammit, (y/n)!” Noct gripes as he glances down at the remaining crumbs on his lap, “You _always_ do this. Couldn’t you have just left me with _one_?” 

“What? You wanted a taste?” You snort derisively as you lean against the chocobo, “Try being a bit faster next time, then. Or, better yet, try not being _greedy_ in the first place.” 

The prince rolls his steely blue eyes. “Sometimes you’re so annoying.” 

“Too bad, so sad,” you quip childishly. 

“Oh, yeah? Well, guess who isn’t getting any extra bacon in the morning?” His face is impassive but he cracks a wicked smirk when he sees your eyes widen the second he threatens that most sacred of food pacts. “Too bad, so _sad_.” 

In truth, you’re feeling a bit _too_ bold, especially considering what you just got away with.  You two have played this game over and over and over again. It’s so routine, so humdrum, that the monotony of it instills some bizarre confidence in you. Probably just bravado, really, but it’s heady and clouds your judgment all the same.  Reaching forward with your sticky fingers, you smear a bit of leftover tart filling on the corner of his mouth and simper, “There. _Enjoy_.” 

He’s as still as a statue. It almost feels like the whole world stops and holds its breath to watch. The berry filling is such a vibrant purple against his pale skin. And then that pale skin starts to turn pink with irritation, steely eyes simmering. 

You roll your eyes and huff, “What? You don’t want it? Fine.” In one fluid motion you lean forward and kiss the corner of his mouth, taking the berry filling off  with your lips (and maybe a _hint_ of tongue). You two are so close that you can smell him.  Little do you know, even as he’s sat in shock, Noct is committing the warmth of you and the smell of you to memory. The feeling of your lips against him, nose brushing against his cheek, how your shoulder bumps against his, the way that your tongue sends an electric bolt shooting down his spine... 

When you pull away, his eyes are as wide as saucers. He swallows hard, face flushing immediately when you smirk at how audible it is.  “There,” you drawl, standing up, “it’s all gone. Don’t complain later about me not giving you a taste.”  You walk away on jelly legs but you don’t show it.  Though you pulled that stunt to get at Noct, you just dazed _yourself_. Your throat is tight and your heart races so hard you think you might faint. It’s tough to keep your composure, which is why you make a beeline straight for the tent so you can freak out in peace.  When you’re just about to close the tent flaps behind you, you call out, “And you’re giving me that extra bacon in the morning!” 

“Ye-Yeah,” Noct calls back faintly. 

From the other side of camp, the others look like they’ve been watching a soap opera. Prompto’s hands are over his mouth and he’s been making this high-pitched noise in the back of his throat that only dogs can hear from the moment you grabbed Noct’s thigh.  Ignis and Gladio share a look before the Shield brings his fist up to his mouth and snorts. Iggy shakes his head with a sigh and queries, “Will he _ever_ learn?”  


“I don’t think he _wants_ to,” Gladio chuckles, grinning at his catatonic prince. 


	16. Prompto: Stillness Speaks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just straight up tooth-rotting fluff and burning shame.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Inappropriate Touching, Originally Titled “Dat Ass” But I’m """Mature""", Your Troll Powers are Nothing Compared to Prompto’s Dorkiness

** Stillness Speaks  **

Prompto is fond of you. There. There it is. That’s it. 

It’s literally the most painfully obvious thing in the world to the others and yet you just watch the perky blond with a placid smile and hooded eyes as he gushes on, and on, and on to you about everything and nothing. Totally not realizing that when he wakes up you’re the first person he wants to talk to and you’re the last one he wants to hear before he goes to sleep. 

Your voice is what he craves. Your attention. Your _everything_. And it’s so damn infuriating to Noctis that you _don’t_ realize it and that Prom is too much of an awkward dork to say it  
outright. Because, let’s be real, it’s gonna take Prompto being as blunt as humanly possible for you to understand that he thinks of you as more than just Noct’s arcane advisor and as more than just a friend. He’s going to need to bludgeon you to death with his words. 

Noct says exactly that to Prompto as he corners him at camp. 

“Whoa! Bludgeon to death?” Prom winces with an uncomfortable laugh, cornflower blue eyes darting over to where you’re kneeling in front of the campfire like you might hear him. “That’s a little extreme there, pal.” 

“You’re awkward and they’re dense,” Noct points out without a trace of malice. But Prom still gets defensive. 

“Hey, that’s rude! They’re not _dumb_. (y/n) is one of the smartest people I know...” he trails off, as he usually does when one of the guys gets him talking about you (and they all try _desperately_ not to let you come up in conversation for this exact reason). “They’re the arcane advisor- technically the _Arch-Mage_! And they-” 

All the prince hears at this point is “blah, blah, blah.”  Noct’s upper lip curls. It’s almost sickening how lovesick his best friend is. Sure, it’s funny for Noct to see Prom freeze up every time you so much as look at him or when he pulls a muscle trying to do some “cool” move in the middle of battle to impress you with even when you aren’t even looking. But this is getting ridiculous!  In the last scuffle with some grenades, Prompto had yelled out to you: “Hey, (y/n)! Check _these_ sweet moves out!” and promptly got incapacitated by the exploding daemon. No one knows what he was trying to accomplish. But he _definitely_ got your attention. 

“Just-” Noct interrupts his bubbly blond pal’s tangent and reels in his frustration. Though Prompto is exuberant, Noct knows how sensitive his long-time best friend can be. He continues to give his advice, albeit in a more neutral tone. “Just talk to them-” 

“But I always-!” 

“-like a person.” At Prom’s nonplussed expression, Noct rolls his steely blue eyes. “You tend to get a little carried away when you talk to them. Just be honest about how you feel. And if you’re afraid that they might not feel the same way, just... I dunno, test the waters.” 

Grade-A relationship advice right there. 

Prom rubs the back of his head, brow furrowed. “Test the- Test the _waters_?” 

Noct blinks. “Flirt.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Like flirting is _so_ easy,” Prompto scoffs. 

“(y/n) flirts with you all the time.” 

The sharpshooter looks jubilant for a split second before his face falls and he points out moodily, “They flirt with everyone.” 

“But they’re awkward as hell with you,” Noct counters. He refrains from adding that you’re generally the most painfully awkward person in existence one-on-one. He’s trying to pump up his bro, not tear you down. That’s what makes this whole situation just a bit more uncomfortable to Noct: he’s friends with both of you. It’d be easier if he didn’t like one of you, that way if things don’t work out it won’t be so... _weird_. 

“So?” 

“ _So_? Obviously when they flirt with you it’s not just to trick you into giving them your food or getting a favor out of you.” The prince can’t help but sound a bit scorned. You’ve conned him out of one too many pastries. 

That gets Prom thinking. Maybe you _do_ like him? You certainly went out of your way to come to his rescue once the grenade downed him, erecting a barrier of stone to keep the creatures at bay as you pressed a potion into his palm, eyes locking in the heat of battle. The sharpshooter can feel his cheeks warming up at the memory of how intensely you looked at him and he nods his head firmly to himself before turning on his heel and heading over to where you crouch by the fire. 

“Just be cool, buddy,” he says to himself, hyping himself up. “Just act natural!” 

“You headed to bed already?” Gladio questions you, dark eyebrows furrowed. 

You, Gladio, and Ignis are around the campfire with Gladdy eating his meal and Iggy blowing on his steaming coffee. You’re busy enchanting a metal bit with trace elements from the fire, intending on using this piece to make a necklace or a bracelet for Prom since the blond was basically a human torch after the grenade got him earlier. He’s a bit too flammable for your liking at the moment. And that won’t do. 

“Yeah,” you roll your shoulders, still toying with the scorched metal, feeling it hum between your fingers, “that fight earlier took a lot out of me.” 

“You mean when you needed to save Prompto’s ass?” Gladio snorts, stirring his cup of noodles before sipping some of the briny broth. “Don’t know what that guy was thinkin’.” 

“I believe he said he was going to perform some _sweet moves_ ,” Ignis supplies, smiling as he waits for his coffee to cool a bit more before taking a tentative sip and humming his approval. 

“Right,” you laugh and start to stand, “which apparently means exploding into a fireball.” 

“Hey, (y/n)! How’s it-!”  It’s as you’re standing up from the fire that Prompto enthusiastically prances up behind you, ready to give you a friendly, totally “cool” and “natural” smack on the back. What he ends up giving you is a friendly, totally “cool” and “natural” smack on the ass.  Noct swears he hears the sound reverberate in his ears as he watches on in fascinated horror. He dies a million deaths. 

You stand there for a century- a statue, unblinking and unfeeling save for the pain that blossoms across your rear from that enthused hand. You can vaguely hear Prompto yelling out apologies to the tune of Gladio choking to death on noodles, laughing at what just unfolded before him. Ignis has his mouth strategically hidden behind his cup of coffee, emerald eyes glinting as he watches the blond dance around you in panic. 

You finally speak.  “I’m going to forget that ever happened.” 

“I’m _so_ sorry!” 

“About what?” You cut your eyes to the blond and he shrinks away. Your expression must be deadly. “What’s there to apologize over?” 

“I-I just... I touched your bu-"  


“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Damn that’s some denial!” Gladio chuckles, voice a little raw from choking on instant noodles, tears in his eyes. 

As you walk away and hide out in the tent, you can’t shake the feeling from your head. Because although Prom _insists_ that hitting your ass was an accident, you wonder if it was purely reflexive on his part to then grab your ass the _second_ his hand made contact with you.  For his part, Noct distances himself from what just transpired, the second-hand shame almost too much to bear. As far as anyone else is concerned, he didn’t have a hand in it at all. 


	17. Gladiolus: Sour Times

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Gladio fluff 'n angst. The inevitable fallout of a near-death experience. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Angst Angst Angst, Insecure Mage, Near-Death Experiences Make the Best Therapy Sessions, Gladio is Captain of the Mage Protection Squad, Bad Writing

** Sour Times  **

There’s been a strange turn of events recently. Usually you and your fellow royal advisors get along like a dream, but lately you and Gladio just  can’t see eye to eye. And it’s the most uncomfortable feeling in the _world_. Gladiolus wants Noct to practice his fighting skills, which is all well and good. Except he keeps  infringing on _your_ time with Noct. You want the prince to be proficient in his elemancy. And honestly? Though the prince is skilled,  his finesse is lacking. The placement of a pinky can make all the difference in the accuracy of a magical attack. 

You  want so desperately to be useful- to teach Noct how to reel back the _friendly fire_ , too. Strangely, Gladio thumbs his nose at you each time you say this.  This typically devolves into you two taking pot-shots at each other- him taking digs at how you don’t join training (“fragile mage”) and you taking jabs at his lack of magical finesse (“bumbling, brute force using buffoon”... Six, the way everyone looked at you after you hurled _that one_ at him). 

Tensions are starting to run high. Gladio can't understand why you don't train. Sure, he knows the appeal of a good novel, but he  _still_ trains, dammit!  He watches as you keep your nose buried in that strange tome of yours. From 5:00 a.m. to 5:35 a.m., he leaves to run and comes back. You're still reading. You grunt “good morning” and “have a nice jog,” “welcome back,” and that's it.  It’s driving him _mad_. Because he can’t wrap his head around why you would choose to remain _vulnerable_ after what  happened to you. 

Any time you all get caught up in a tough fight, he practically grows eyes on the back of his head to watch you. He finds himself constantly looking at you over his shoulder, breaking into a dead sprint to rush to your aid when you get so much as a scrape on your knee.  But every time he invites you to join him on a run, to spar, to learn how to handle a sword, to be better prepared to protect _yourself_... you brush him off. 

_Why_?  Well, despite what he thinks, you _aren’t_ choosing to remain vulnerable. You’re choosing to be smart- _proactive_. Because what he thinks is just an old tome with a flaking cover is what’s going to save you all one day. 

“Hey, Magey. Come spar with me,” Gladio gruffly calls over to you early one morning and you resist the urge to roll your eyes. 

Taking a tentative sip of the strong coffee Iggy made specifically for you, you reply lightly, “No thanks, Gladio. I’m doing a bit of research.” 

“Readin’ a book all day isn’t going to help you.” 

“Said every failed general and every usurped king,” you quip, turning a delicate page and raising your eyebrows at the summoning circle that’s drawn there.  Lips thin into a hard line when you read that daemons should _never_ be summoned. Little too late for _that_ , Aela. 

Gladio crosses his arms and snaps, “You know what I mean, (y/n). You reading that old book every damn day instead of training isn’t gonna do you any favors in the next battle.” 

“Hm...” You turn the page without reading, trying to look like you’re too cool to be deeply involved in this conversation, “My magic serves me well enough- it’s reliable and powerful and has saved _your_ butt countless times. You’d realize that if you’d learn to stop being so overbearing.” 

“Overbearing?” He scoffs. 

“Did I stutter?” You snap the book shut and let it rest heavily on your lap. “Gladiolus, I don’t need you riding me every damn day, okay? I know what I’m doing- better than you do, actually.” 

“That so?”  


“Yes. This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m an adult. I can take care of not only myself but  Noctis, too.” You pause. “And I _know_ what I’m doing,” you repeat. 

You’re mostly saying this for your own benefit. Ever since you joined this quest, you’ve been feeling like you’ve been slowly drowning- chin just barely above the water, clawing desperately for something to stay afloat.  When you first joined Noctis, you were unsure. Your footing was a little unsteady but eventually, especially after that gauntlet they all put you through with the hunts, you started to stand on your own. 

Your confidence was a fragile thing that was steadily growing stronger. And then the attack happened. You lost your mother. You lost your home. You lost your life.  Just like that, the rug was pulled out from under you and you were left to struggle with the aftermath. And though you’re always present for Noct to consult, although you always have a joke for Prompto, a compliment for Ignis... you’ve been falling down, down, _down_...  You struggle with a pleasant smile on your face. Drown with poise and grace. 

“You lived a pampered life in that Spire for twenty years,” Gladio snarks, snapping you out of your reverie with a cold, verbal slap. “What would you know about protecting someone?” 

“And you lived in the _luxurious Crown City_ for twenty-three,” you fire right back. “We’re both here to guide _Noct_. You aren’t here to guide _me_. I was brought along as a leading authority on the arcane arts. I wasn’t brought along for you to hold my hand and wipe my tears when I get a booboo.” 

The amber-eyed Amicitia fights off an insulted blush. Before he can shoot some venom your way, he’s interrupted by Noct.  If one thing can be said about the prince, it’s that he doesn’t abide his friends trying to _rip each other apart_. And, quite frankly, you and Gladio have been going at it for nearly a _week_...  Noct is sick of this shit. After what you’ve all gone through together, you all have a mutual understanding of one another. 

Ignis is quietly supportive, relying on subtle cues like coffee with added cinnamon to show he cares. Noct is always there to listen, always there with a joke and a deadpan look that never ceases to make you laugh. And Prom’s arms seem to be in a perpetual state of openness.  Gladio isn’t unsupportive or unsympathetic. But he has a certain severity reserved just for you these days. And you’re always seemingly eager to reciprocate with that sharp tongue. 

“Again?” Noct gripes, silvery blue eyes simmering. Though he was initially groggy, the sounds of you and Gladio sniping at each other got his head throbbing and he’s wide awake. “Isn’t it bad enough that we’re hunting for _frogs_ all day today?” 

You turn your gaze onto the prince with his raven bangs plastered to his forehead. “Everything is fine, Noct.” 

“Right,” he drawls, totally unconvinced.  _Nothing_ is fine between you and the Shield, everyone knows that. In fact, the guys have talked about it when you two aren’t around. Hushed words by the fire, long conversations when you two are gone.  The one to plant the idea in the prince’s head was Prompto.  It’s a good idea borne from a horrible place. Well, not necessarily _horrible_ but... Noct didn’t know his blond best friend liked to play matchmaker. Or had such a vivid imagination about the goings on of the prince’s advisors. 

“I think they’re into each other,” Prom had mused one morning while you and Gladio were out doing your own things. 

Noct almost choked on his coffee and sputtered, “What? No way!” He looked to Iggy for support but the tactician remained quiet, contemplative, before meeting the prince’s eye and raising his eyebrows in tandem with his shoulders. 

“I won’t pretend to know what those two think,” Iggy said. “However, I do know that they’re  both under a great deal of pressure. Either way, the situation is about to come to a head.” He sighed and sipped his coffee, “I can’t imagine things carrying on like this for much longer.” 

“Which is why we need them to be alone with each other to work things out!” Prom crowed. “Like... a day trip! Are there any hot springs around here?” 

“We’re in Hammerhead and you watch too much anime,” Noct deadpanned. But the seed was planted.  And, much to Noct’s own horror and Prompto’s glee, the prince finds himself suggesting, “Why don’t you two go somewhere together today? We’re just gonna be catching frogs and-” 

“I’m not leaving you,” you immediately interrupt. 

“You need me around,” Gladio cuts off the prince as well. 

Noct gives you two a chilly smile. “What was all that talk about being adults? Well, I’m one too.” 

“But-” 

“I’m only-” 

“Do I need to be harsh?” The prince crosses his arms and fixes you two with a cool look. “You’re both _getting on my nerves_. Go sort out your differences before you drive me insane.” 

And so you and Gladio find yourselves driving down the road on your scooter, headed to a campsite in Cleigne that Prompto said “looked nice” while the others go to Kettier Highland.  You’re supposed to be doing “team building exercises” with Gladio, whatever the hell that means.  Prompto texted you a link to a website about it. It redirected so many times that your browser refused to open the page. You try again when you get to the campsite only to have Gladio loom over you after he finishes putting up the tent.  He snatches your phone and scolds, "C'mon. The whole point of being out here is to get away from technology." 

"Do you realize how _old_ you sound right now?" You correct him, “And that’s _not_ the point of this. We’re basically being put in time-out by Noct.” 

The Shield gives you an unamused look before pocketing your phone and announcing, “Let’s go for a run.” 

“Six, seriously?” You groan, looking around the green and brown wilderness, “I’m _tired_ , Gladio! I was driving for a while! All _you_ had to do was sit and look pretty.” 

Gladio ignores your jab and rebuffs, “Which is exactly _why_ we should go for a run. Get that blood pumpin’.” 

“I don’t have any exercise clothes,” you point out, hopeful that you can get out of this dreaded run. 

“No need. You fight in those clothes, might as well train in ‘em, too.” He starts stretching but continues his lecture, unimpeded, “You don’t fight the Empire in shorts and a t-shirt.” 

Eyes turn to the sky and you silently plead, _“Ramuh... I know I probably invoke you too often, but if you could finally listen to me, please do me a solid and make it storm-”_

Gladio smacks your shoulder, smacks you right out of that half-assed prayer and says enthusiastically, “Let’s go!”  Honestly, you have no choice but to follow him through the greenery of Cleigne.  Legs pump and lungs ache. For a big guy, Gladio is surprisingly fast. Which is unfortunate for you, because it gives him the opportunity to coach you and “motivate” you the whole time. 

“Pick up the pace, (y/n)!” 

“Yeah, that’s it! Like that!” 

You want to trip him when he leaps over tree roots and ducks under brush with ease. What the hell is he? Part anak? And when he starts climbing up a damn _cliff_?  Coming to a halt, you watch him go and pant, “Aw, _hell_ no!” Arm comes up to wipe the sweat from your brow. “What the hell, Gladiolus? You said a run! I’m not a mountain goat!” 

A flash of amber, he glances over his shoulder at you but keeps going. “C’mon, Magey. Can’t handle this?”  The implication that you can’t do something? That you can’t keep up? That you can’t keep up with _him_? Stubbornness has you dusting your hands off on your thighs and you’re biting your lip and following after him. 

“ _Dammit..._ ”  


After what feels like an age, you find yourselves at the top of the cliff.  Gladio says something about it being beautiful or whatever, amber eyes turning from the scenery to you, looking proud, but you’re too busy stooped over gasping for breath to pay attention.  Waiting for your muscles to stop _burning_ and _twitching_ seems to take a lifetime. While you catch your breath, you survey the land real quick. You notice that you’re kinda high  up, and say, “Yeah. Looks nice,” before turning on your heel and heading back down. 

The descent is already proving to be trickier than the ascent. You scout out a good spot, one that has some decent ridges for footing, and head off.  Muscles ache and head throbs. All you had in the morning was coffee so you’re starved and irritable. Stomach twists painfully with a pitiful mewl of a gurgle.  Plus, you’re a bit peeved that the bodyguard just wasted valuable time that could’ve been spent following up on a research lead for an enchantment that supposedly stops magical corrupt- 

“What’s your problem?”  Aaaaaand you _knew_ the inevitable squabbling would rear its ugly head at the worst moment.  Arms tremble as you carefully lower yourself from the edge and put your foot on the ridge. At this point, with how much you need to concentrate to get your foot stable, you aren’t going to give Gladio the time of day.  You’d rather get down safely than mouth off and wind up breaking something. “ _(y/n)_.” 

You can feel his footsteps more than you hear them. They’re surprisingly thunderous. Internally, you muse over how you _probably_ should’ve taken the same path down as the one you climbed up. But this part of the plateau is less steep...  Unfortunately, it’s also less stable. As Gladio comes closer, you feel the soil and sediment loosen beneath your fingers. “Gladio, stay back,” you say with surprising calmness even as your stomach drops. 

You turn your head to stare out at the horizon over your shoulder, taking in the greenery and the bald patches of dirt. Creatures scamper around in the distance. Hell, you can even see the campground with that green tent and your yellow scooter parked not too far away.  You’re a decent height up to be able to see so far out.  Risking a bit of movement, you crane your neck to see if you can spot the drop-off. 

Oh, nice!  Sharp rocks promise a pleasant landing. 

Surprisingly enough, Gladio stopped when you asked him to. Now you turn to look at him over the edge of the cliff, over your trembling knuckles.  You inform lightly, “I might be about to fall to my death. So, if I _do_... give my books to Ignis and tell Prompto to name a chocobo after me. Also, tell Noct that his form is still shit and that I _know_ he hasn’t been practicing his elemancy like I told him to. Tell him to practice or else I’ll haunt him.” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Gladio grumbles, trying to look irritated though you can see the tension in his body. 

“I also want you to know that I’m not as useless as you’d like to think, despite the situation,” you continue your rant. Fear has you word-vomiting pretty hard. Later, you might be embarrassed about this. But right now? You feel pretty vindicated in the diatribe. 

“ _Useless_?” Gladio scoffs, “I never said that, Magey.” 

“You never had to,” you sigh and close your eyes, take a breath to steady yourself before slowly pulling yourself up just as you push off of the ridge. You’re trying to move back up the cliffside, trying to get back onto the solid plateau.  All you get to do is scramble to grab on to something, _anything,_ before everything falls out from under you.  Hanging from a craggy cliffside with only your fingers to hold you up gives you a brand new definition of “dead weight.” ‘Cause that’s what the rest of your body is as you struggle to try and find some divot or groove to put your feet. 

“(y/n)! Grab my hand!” You look up to see a head of dark hair pop into view. Amber eyes are wide and panicked but the Shield keeps the rest of his face stoic and serious. If you know him (and you do), he’s keeping his bodyweight spread out to lessen the risk of even more earth giving way. However, if he grabs you and tries to pull you up, you’re both going down.  


"Get back-" you gasp, straining to pull yourself up, "Get back or you’re as screwed as I am!" 

“Grab my hand!” He stresses each word this time, reaching desperately for you. 

A bit of sediment falls down and you blink it away, sputtering at the dirt that hits your mouth. “Will you just _listen to me_ for once in your damn life?!” You yell, heart in your throat, “Six, you never listen! If I die again, I _won’t_ be taking you with me, asshole!” 

"Dammit, (y/n)!" He continues to reach for you just as you lose your grip and fall. "(Y/N)!" 

You're falling in more ways than one.  For the briefest moment, you really hope you won’t die. Those would be some shitty last words. Hell, you called Gladio an _asshole_. But then, you kinda hope you do. And soon. Because each sharp rock that you hit and skim on your way down threatens to eviscerate you or maim you, even when you miraculously kick off from the cliffside to put a bit of distance between yourself and its deathwall of rocks. 

You’re gaining speed fast so you have to act faster.  Reaching one arm behind you, you move your palm at a 90-degree angle to the rocks that rush to greet you, squeeze your eyes shut, and release a pulse of forceful energy. It's your last saving grace and you can only pray that it works.  And at the last possible second, it does...  But _maybe_ , in your panic, you put a bit too much _oomph_ into that blast. Because you find yourself violently propelled into the air. 

You're sent flying back up, head jerking around painfully, rattling your brain. Sailing through the sky like a ragdoll, you have just enough time to wonder if this was a good idea and if you got the angle right before you land on the plateau right on your face, air knocked out of your lungs.  Something snapped. Something _definitely_ snapped.  The earth moves, thundering footsteps headed your way before Gladio drops to his knees by your side and bellows, "What the hell were you thinking?!" 

"Ugh," you moan once you find your voice, lips pressed into the dirt, “the point is... I _was_ thinking. I’m alive, aren’t I? Got that-” you cut yourself off with a pained grunt, “that badass magic, just like I told you.”  Someone must have shoved your head under water because noises don’t sound as sharp. Two strong hands slowly push you onto your back and blood immediately pours down the back of your throat like a fountain.  Your nose is broken.  All you can do is flop miserably on your side and spit up blood and mucus. Six, if you didn’t know any better you’d say you broke a few ribs. 

"Idiot! How could you be so damn stupid?!" Gladiolus bellows, “You should’ve just taken my hand and stopped bein' so damn proud!” 

Gladio's yelling, the pain, the fear that still makes your blood buzz and your heart race, your mounting insecurities... it all makes for a perfect storm. You don't even realize that you're crying until Gladio startles and begins to apologize.  After a few minutes of you sniffling and trying not to gag on the taste of blood, Gladio gently rubbing your arm, you sit up and groan. Well, your head was pulled out of the water and is now occupied by bees. 

“What’s wrong?” Gladio asks softly, sitting across from you. 

To your horror, you find yourself answering honestly, "I feel useless and lonely." Your voice comes out strange, choked by tears and blood. 

He gently punches your shoulder with a snort and apologizes when you moan and say that a rock cut you there.  "C’mon, (y/n). Not a day goes by where you don’t help all of us out of a tough spot. And... what you said earlier. I _do_ appreciate you even if it might seem like I don’t." Amber eyes meet yours and he pats your knee carefully. “You’re a damn fine mage and a- a damn fine friend. So, if you ever feel lonely, you can always come and talk to me.” 

"When I said I was lonely it- it’s not about having you guys as friends. It’s-” you stop yourself and sigh, “You know what I mean." 

An understanding silence fills the small space between you two. You keep your eyes on the ground, on your dirtied, ripped pants and the droplets of blood that almost look black in the dirt.  "I hear you listening to her voicemail at night," Gladio finally confesses. "Sometimes we all need a good cry, even the best of us. Don't worry about it."  The sound of movement has you looking up and before you can prepare yourself a bright light is flashed in your face. 

“Thank y- Ah! What the hell?” You yelp, throwing your arm across your eyes. “Way to ruin the mood!” 

“Oops! Sorry. Just let me check somethin’ out.” Gladio carefully moves your arm away and flashes the light from the flashlight app on his phone in your eyes. He sighs in relief, "Good. You don't have a concussion. That was a hell of a fall." 

“Would’ve been worse if I fell the _other_ way,” you point out, proud of your quick thinking. 

“Maybe. Maybe not,” he shrugs. When the Shield sees your nonplussed expression, he explains, “Whatever you did pulverized those rocks. You woulda taken a tough hit, but it was nothing but a bed of pebbles and dust. I think you probably fared worse this way.” 

“Huh...” You purse your lips. 

Laughter has you making eye contact with the Shield once more. He’s laughing so hard that he has tears in his eyes. Once he’s able, he sputters out, “The look on your face! You can’t be satisfied that you lived, huh? You have to do it all _perfectly_.” 

“Shut up.” 

“The Perfectionist Mage,” he quips, looking satisfied with himself for that lame title. 

You huff, irritation quickly numbing the cuts on your body and stifling the buzzing in your head. “What am I? Just pick one. Safety Mage? Perfectionist Mage?” 

“Hungry Mage,” he says, picking off menu. When he sees your flushed face, he quirks an eyebrow and drawls, “Yeah, I heard your stomach before you fell. You’re always hungry for somethin’.” 

“That... let’s just go back to camp. I need a potion and a change of clothes.”  The rest of the day, things are much better. You and Gladio are back to that easygoing groove of you telling lame jokes and him being the peanut gallery, there to boo you and laugh. You share your meals and tell stories. He promises to lay off and you promise to attend _one_ training session.  “Just one! And no rock climbing!” You say, setting ground rules. 

That night, you have the best sleep of your life. Maybe Gladio was right? Everyone needs a good cry. Or they need to almost fall to their death.  It isn’t until morning that things start to get tense again. But it’s a very different sort of tension. 

As usual, you’re up before Gladio and getting ready to head back to meet the others after your brief exile. Nature calls once you put all of your things in Choco Jr.’s storage tail and you amble off from the campsite to find a nice, covered spot to do your business.  You pull your pants down, letting them fall to your ankles. You’re about to pull your underwear down when you see _it_.  Feathers, scales, yellow eyes.  A basilisk. 

In dead silence, still as a statue, you watch it walk around like a giant, overgrown chicken. You have two options and they both end with running. You either kick your pants off _as you run_ or you risk the extra couple of seconds to pull your pants up from around your ankles and _run_.  When the basilisk cocks its head toward you and starts walking over, your decision is made. 

All that running from yesterday? Yeah, you damn Gladiolus in your head for tiring you out. However, you’re also a little bit more prepped for this and before you know it you’ve lost the basilisk and you’re back in the safety of the campsite.  Unfortunately, Gladio is awake. And you aren't wearing pants. You're very conscious of this fact. So is Gladio.  The Shield clears his throat and looks up from your bare legs to meet your eye, “Why-” 

“There was a basilisk!” You blurt, feeling numb. “It... I left my pants and ran and... I’m sure they got ruined.” 

He nods his head slowly. “Right. Did you bring any other clothes?” 

“My other clothes got ruined yesterday because _you_ wanted us to go rock climbing,” you snap under that knowing gaze, somehow finding the strength within yourself to play the blame game even as the Shield has a front-row seat to your underwear. 

He sighs, “I have some sweats. Just- they have a drawstring so you can tighten 'em. You’re gonna need to roll up the legs, though.” 

“Thanks,” you sigh in relief. As you’re about to turn around and enter the tent, you pause and ask, “Can I borrow a shirt?” 

Amber eyes glance down toward your chest. “Don’t you have a shirt?” 

Feeling self-conscious under that heated gaze, you explain, “I’ll look dumb in sweatpants and a semi-formal button-up.” 

He squints at you with a smirk. “There’s an old t-shirt in my bag, Fashion Mage.” 

“Seriously?” You whine. 

When you two return to the others, neither you nor Gladio are prepared for the explosive reaction that you get. All eyes are on your borrowed clothing. Noct looks like his eyes are about to pop out of his head.  Prompto rears around to smack Noct’s shoulder before he yells out to the heavens, “I knew it!”


	18. 09. Insomniac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like nothing good ever happens for y’all in these chapters anymore. After this, more fun, less explicit references to what you’re planning, and less heavy-handed angst. That’ll be reserved for the angsty little Ardyn side stories where you get to hang out with your hipster devil-uncle who should’ve never been around impressionable mages in the first place. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Mild Angst, Minimal Loqi Shade, Not-so- Foreshadowing, Obsessive Mage, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, All About that AU, After this We Have Fun

** 09\. Insomniac  **

“How good are you at distracting people, (y/n)?” 

You glance to your left to find Prompto blinking his baby blues at you. Though he’s acting as lackadaisical as ever, arms behind his head and gait cocky even though he should be _sneaking_ , the tension is evident in his lithe form. He’s nervous and you aren’t too sure where it stems from. It could be that you’re all being used as bait so that Noct and Cor can get the jump on an imperial base _or_ it could be coming from the fact that you’re all about to declare war on the Empire. If you had to hazard a guess, you’d put your money on somewhere in-between. 

It’s been a few days since Cor turned Noct on to this little plot- this little _declaration of war._ In that time, Noct has been practicing with his armiger. In that time, you’ve been reading your family grimoire more and more. Because you remembered the story you read, the one you were trying to remember when you first saw that celestial weapon in the tomb. Now, you're too caught up in the siren song of your mother's unfinished research. Every time Noct uses his armiger and winces, you lose yourself a little more in the slanted calligraphy. A tomb of old literature encases you. Ink fills your veins alongside black coffee. It's all become too much; a duffle bag is purchased and placed in the Regalia's trunk, teeming with your manuscripts. 

So many manuscripts. _Dozens_. And it’s only been five days. There's no making sense of the loose ends of your mother’s research in her portion of the grimoire (and sometimes you feel like she left it all scattered just to frustrate you), but you still take the threads in hand and run. You run and _run_... It’s not healthy. You know it. Everyone knows it. _Especially_ Noct. It was during a fight with a seemingly endless stream of creatures that your mask slipped. You blamed your explosive reaction to Noct’s use of his armiger on exhaustion. Everyone had stopped to turn and look at you as you yelled out at the prince to “STOP!” Bit dramatic, for sure. Even the last voretooth stopped trying to pounce Prompto to look at you. 

“Why are you freaking out about me using the armiger?” Noct had asked once his celestial weapon disappeared. 

“I’m _not_ freaking out,” you huffed, cheeks hot. “I’m _concerned_. There’s a difference.”  


“You literally just screamed ‘stop’ at me when I used it,” he pointed out phlegmatically, totally  unamused. “And _every time_ I use it, you look at me like you think I’m gonna drop dead.” 

After a moment of mulling over how you would respond, you informed him, “There’s a story that I  read about how magic can wear down human bodies.”  


The prince quirked a dark eyebrow at you. “Where’d you hear that?” 

“You don’t really need to _hear_ it.” You explained delicately, “You saw your father. It was the same with your ancestors, too. And the Oracles. Same story over and over. They use magic and their health goes. The body wears down over time.” 

“ _Iovitas_ don’t.” 

You blinked in surprise at that. He wasn’t lying but he _was_ pointing it out to deflect. You mentioning his father was a sore spot. Same as anyone mentioning your mother around you. But you still moved the conversation back to him and his bloodline all the same. “ _You_ aren’t an Iovita. We’re talking about you here, Noct.” 

“So you want me to stop using the armiger?” He seemed irritated with you. And who could blame him? He’d spent a good chunk of his time practicing with the sword and the axe, getting used to the feel of them, growing accustomed to summoning them. And you wanted him to _stop_? 

You shook your head and corrected, “I want you to _be smart_ about it and let _me_ handle the rest. That’s what I’m here for, after all.” 

_That_ got his attention. Steely blue eyes narrowed at you as Noct slowly asked, “What are you talking about?” 

“I’m picking up my mother’s research where she left it off," you answered proudly even though you had nothing to show for it. Days of reading her passages had left you empty-handed. But, since she repeatedly referenced the works of Lumis, you knew where you were going to pick up your next reading session. And then Noct said something that had all eyes on you. 

"Is that why you stopped sleeping?" 

Six, you hadn’t and _haven’t_ slept since the coeurl incident... 

“Yes,” you finally reply to the blond, snapping out of your reverie and tugging Prom down to crouch with you. You ignore his little squeal of protest. “I _am_ good at distracting others. I think one year, an entire class’ GPA dropped because of me.” 

“How did you manage that?” Ignis inquires, throwing you a skeptical yet intrigued look over his shoulder. 

Honestly, you’re surprised he even heard you. You’re all keeping your voices low for the sake of not blowing your cover and not getting on Monica’s nerves. You hold off on telling your tale when the brunette directs you all to a path that leads to the highway where magitek soldiers patrol the road. She says to be careful, eyes hard. “I’ll tell you later,” you hiss, readying your staff and waiting for Gladio to make the first move once you’re all within striking distance of the infantry. 

As a mage... fights aren’t really your cuppa. Exploring, reading, or finding new plants that you’ve never worked with? That’s the good shit. You could do that _all day_ (and you _have..._ ). But nearly getting harpooned by a magitek soldier like you’re the world’s smallest land whale? Nah. You can live without that. But you sure do appreciate how quickly Gladio slides in front of you with his shield to deflect the attack. 

“Nice one!” You praise. 

“Yep.” And he’s off after that monosyllabic response- there one second and gone the next like some sort of cryptid. Was he even there at all? Who knows? 

“Psh! See if I applaud you again, punk,” you murmur under your breath right as you send a small chunk of the highway smashing into a few soldiers. Your hand tingles afterward and you shake the sensation out through your fingers. Lack of sleep is making all this fighting tricky. 

“ _Whoa_!” Prompto marvels from his spot beside you, a spot that seems to be his permanent residence ever since he accidentally shot you. “That was so cool!” It’s his default setting with you. Everything you do is “so cool” or “awesome” or some other hyperbolic reaction to something the magisters would roll their eyes at. Where a magister would correct your form and punish you with 20 page papers for a spell that lasts a fraction of a second too long, Prom all but dresses in a cheerleader outfit and sings your praises. 

“Taxpayers won’t think so,” you quip, eyeing the 5x5 piece missing from the street. “I got a little carried away. It won’t happen again.” 

“ _It might happen again,”_ you think bitterly. _“I should’ve taken a power nap while I had the chance. I’m being careless.”_

“No! No! Do it again!” The blond practically begs and you roll your eyes. 

“That’s-” you grunt and plunge the sharp end of your staff through the head of a soldier that started crawling toward you after your highway trick blew off its legs, “-not gonna happen, Sunshine.” 

“Su-Sunshine?” 

Despite the heat that you feel creeping up your neck at that accidental slip of friendly affection, you snark, “It’s either Sunshine or Choco-butt. And Gladio prefers the latter.” 

“What?!” 

It’s warm out and drizzly which makes you sweat more than you normally would from the skirmish. All in all, it was a successful distraction with the soldiers coming out in droves to greet you all; Gladio leading the charge and Ignis micromanaging- I mean giving helpful instructions. No one is injured and all there is to do now is wait for Noct and the marshal to open the gates for you all to get through. 

“About that story...” 

Eyes snap to Iggy who is standing next to you. Someone should put a damn bell on him because you didn’t hear the bespectacled brunet come anywhere _near_ you until he spoke! But you hide your shock well- behind a perfectly timed cough that almost sounds like a yelp. Okay, you don’t hide it well. Rolling your shoulders and rolling the shame right off of your body like water beading off of a duck’s back, you answer, “When I was allowed to join classes with other students, some of the friendlier ones would ask me to show them the ‘coolest thing’ I could  do. Needless to say, once you make one person a burn-less fireball to carry around, everyone starts asking for one, too. They stopped paying attention in class for a solid week and over half the class flunked the first major exam. Sheesh, the _looks_ I got after everyone got their exam results.” 

“Burn-less fireball?” Prompto awes, seemingly forgetting that you just called him Choco-butt not even a minute ago. 

“The first accident I ever had with my magic was with fire. I conjured a fireball, held it in my hand, lost concentration, and then burned the _ever-loving hell_ out of myself. It didn’t scar but I learned my lesson. After that, I made it my mission to master fire spells before I turned ten.” You shrug like it’s no big deal. “And I did. My fire magic doesn’t burn anything unless I want it to.” 

Prompto’s blue eyes are all starry as he breathes, “Can you make _me_ a burn-less fireball?” 

“You mean you want me to turn _you_ into a fireball?” You slowly raise your hand, palm facing  toward Prompto. “Done!” 

“No!” He winces and laughs, just barely flinching. “Will you _please_ make a fireball _for_ me?” Behind the blond, Gladio gives you a curt shake of his head. Ooh, this is a tough spot. You don’t want to irritate Gladiolus but you also don’t want to disappoint Prompto. I mean, it’s _just_ a little fireball! It’s no bigger than a tangerine! Why can’t Prompto have one? You find yourself asking exactly that. The sharpshooter rounds on the bodyguard. “Yeah, why _can’t_ I have one?” 

“Because you’re careless,” the Shield fires back. “Besides, where would you keep it?” 

That gives the blond pause. “Uh...” 

Ignis bargains with a patented sigh, “How about a compromise? Prompto can have his fun with his fireball for today and (y/n) takes it away come nightfall?” 

“Aw! Only a day? That’s no fun.” 

You give the blond an amused look as you hold your hand out to him, palm facing the sky, and snort, “I don’t know how much fun you think a harmless fireball is going to be. You can’t even use it in battle.” Cupping your hand, the air in your palm swirls and heats up until a small ball of orange flames materializes. It flickers faintly in the rain but remains whole. 

“ _Should I really be wasting energy on something like this?”_

The thought is whisked away with the rain water the second you see the expression on Prom’s face. Wide-eyed, Prompto reaches for the fireball like you’re offering him the world. Tilting your hand, you allow the fireball to roll off of your fingertips and into the sharpshooter’s eagerly waiting hands. And once he gets it nestled in his palms, he _immediately_ drops it. “Ah! It tingles!” 

With a roll of your eyes you stoop over and pick it up out of a growing puddle before tossing it to Gladio like you’re throwing a softball. The brunet immediately catches your sneak-attack fireball and turns it around between his palms. “It _does_ kinda tingle,” Gladio agrees. Amber eyes flicker over the strategist and he barely warns, “Hey, Ignis, catch,” before hurling the ball of fire at the bespectacled man. 

It’s a streak of orange through the falling rain, shooting past your head where Iggy catches it with ease behind you. Like his friend, Ignis rolls the ball around in his hands and hums his agreement, “Very interesting.” 

And that’s how Noct and Cor find you all: Fooling around and playing catch with a burn-less fireball. Prompto immediately hides the fireball behind his back like you were all doing something illegal. With pursed lips, you snap your fingers and the flame is gone; snuffed out in an instant. Prompto turns his wide eyes onto you, torn between amazement and frustration at having his new toy taken away. 

The marshal glosses over the scene to praise you all, “You did a great job distracting them.” 

“Yeah,” Gladio drawls, “the Niffs couldn’t take their eyes off us. The area’s cleared out.” 

You point up toward the cloudy sky and sigh, “As usual, Gladiolus, your talent of speaking too soon never ceases to amaze me.” The others turn their attention onto the approaching Niff airship which emits a... sort of annoying voice, if you’re being honest. The sort of voice that probably belongs to a face that looks to be in want of a nice, good, open-handed slap. You’ve met a few people at the Spire with voices like that- the sort of grating kind no matter the pitch or tone. “Do we _have_ to fight?” You ask flatly, readying your staff with an unamused smirk. 

There’s a growing pressure behind your eyes. It slowly tightens and tightens until it feels like a rubber band about to snap. A shake of your head doesn’t do anything to rid yourself of the uncomfortable sensation. The others think you’re just shaking rain out of your eyes. 

“Why don’t you hit ‘em with more pavement?” Prompto suggests, still harping on about the previous skirmish. 

“How about I-” You don’t get to finish your empty threat because you nearly get blown to bits by a rocket from the MA-X Cuirass. And so, without further ado, the battle begins with you pinned under the quick-thinking blond and getting hit in the forehead with a bit of rubble from the blast. That bit of rubble seems to make the rubber band in your head tighten exponentially. “Ow!” 

“No time for bitchin’, (y/n)! Get up and get movin’!” It’s Gladio who says it and you and Prom get to share an eye rolling moment before you hop up and get to work. The usual chores are doled out. You and Prompto get the “annoyances” while the others focus on the “big bad.” As you electrocute a sniper, your vision shifts. It’s as if the scene before you is nothing more than a picture and someone has started slowly moving it from side to side and you struggle to keep your eyes centered on it. The world falls out from under your feet and you fall into a bottomless pit. 

When you awake, the others are talking among themselves. You're on Noct's jacket, curled up in the backseat of the Regalia. The guys stand off to the side of the road, voices low but not low enough. They had covered for you when you fell. Told Cor you were just getting over a bad cold that had made it next to impossible for you to get sleep. They agree not to tell you that _Cor_ was the one to see you fall and come running to your aid. They unanimously agree not to let you know that the Immortal carried you to safety in his arms. They figure you probably won’t be able to handle the news. Prompto even guesses that you might faint again. 

Keeping your eyes closed, you listen to their “private” conversation. As expected, they’re talking about you. And though you expected to be the topic of gossip, your stomach still twists when you hear your name spoken softly like a curse. 

“I think this recent obsession might be serving as a distraction for (y/n),” Ignis surmises. 

“The book?” Gladio asks for clarification. Someone probably nods because he grumbles, “Yeah. They don’t even sleep anymore. They always have the campfire goin’ through the night.” 

“And it’s a _little_ hard to ignore half the trunk space being taken up by a bunch of paper,” Prompto points out. 

“Have any of you tried reading some of that stuff? I couldn’t wrap my head around any of it.” 

“You shouldn’t snoop, Noct.”  


“Don’t tell me you never got curious, Specs.”  


“Well,” Prom interrupts, “should we talk to (y/n) about it?” 

There’s a pause. 

“I had hoped to give them more time to sort things out...” 

“Sort _what_ out?” 

“Noct.” 

“What?” Noct snaps, “You heard them. They were cracking jokes the second Gladio brought them back. I don’t think their death affected them as much as you-” 

“They haven’t _slept_ in days. They haven’t _eaten_ in days.” Ignis’ tone is sharp but restrained. “Noctis, if that doesn’t fit your description of ‘affected’-” 

“All right, guys, no need to argue!” Prompto struggles to placate them. You can hear the panicked grimace in his voice. 

“(y/n) is a little hardheaded,” Gladio says, “so I think we’d have a better chance getting through to ‘em when we _aren’t_ all pissed off at each other. Otherwise? They’re not gonna listen to a thing we have to say.” 

Ignis sighs, “You’re right.” 

Footsteps approach the Regalia and you deepen your breathing, feigning sleep. The sound of a car door opening has your eyelids fluttering before you _perfectly_ act out waking up for the first time. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up. All eyes are on you. The _perfect_ groggy smile stretches across your face. “Hey... What happened?” 

Looks are exchanged. “(y/n), we should-”  


You cut Ignis off to point out, “It’s almost nightfall. Let’s head back to camp and we’ll talk there.” 

You don’t give them a chance to tell you that none of them think it’s a good idea for you to drive your scooter after passing out from exhaustion. The short drive back to the campsite is occupied with thoughts of how easily they saw right through you. But it’s not like you made it any huge secret that you were unraveling at breakneck speed, anyway. So... you just have to _hope_ that you find something useful before they all try and spring an intervention on you. You pray that you do find something... _anything_. 

And honestly? Everyone is pissed that you _immediately_ go back to reading the second you step into camp instead of talking like you said you would. Gladio is half tempted to throw your book in the fire but thinks better of it, reels in that frustration of his, heeds his own advice. But he, like Noct, glowers at you the whole time. Iggy distracts himself by cooking and Prom tries to distract the others with pictures. You could cut the tension at camp with a damn plastic spoon. 

“Serendipity” is the word of the day for you. But years later when you look back on this moment, it probably wasn’t anything so lucky. As you’re thumbing through the grimoire for the thousandth time, under the collective heated gaze of Noct and Gladio, a passage from Lumis sticks out at you: 

“ _Today, my king asked me to give up binding magic because of how it tethers the soul. I tried to argue my case, but he was unconvinced. Binding magic can be applied to multiple mediums, not just humans. However, the enchanter must be careful. Enchanting and binding are different species- magic is exerted in both methods but it is not replenished through binding. Enchantments require finite amounts of magic which makes it easier to control whereas binding spells require the enchanter to be a constant fount of magic. Binds tie. There is no good reason for an enchanter_ _to use binding magic for long periods of time. I have seen the repercussions firsthand. The bind must be broken at some point, lest-_ ” 

“Yes! _Yes_!” Everyone looks at you now as you flail in your chair, nearly dropping your book. You need paper and a pen, _stat_. It’s a breakthrough! A totally _ill-timed_ breakthrough because you’ve written on every available space on each sheet of paper that you have. In your panic, you begin scribbling down on your arm just as you corner Ignis at his makeshift kitchen and ask, “Iggy! Do we have anymore paper?” 

“No,” green eyes flicker down to where you hastily write on your forearm, your handwriting illegible to all but you, “we’re all out. Why?” 

“Are you fucking me?!” You yell in exhausted fury. Ignis blinks in surprise and it takes a split second for you to realize what you just said. You blush and sputter, “O-Oh, Six! _Sorry_. I accidentally dropped out ‘kidding’ and that...” you trail off, feeling all eyes on you. Wincing, you turn away and hiss, “ _Gods_.” 

“You can use my notebook if you-” 

“No,” you cut him off hastily as you hurry back to the tent, “I’m fine! I’m fine! Sorry!” 

Luckily for you, you get the thought down before it can be lost- hastily typed into your phone with typos galore. What’s _not_ so lucky...? Now, at camp, Gladio takes great pleasure in randomly yelling, “Are you fucking me?!” when the group is out of cup noodles or when you decline his offer to train. Gods, he’s such an asshole. And you hate that you can’t help but laugh each time he does it. 

But you found what you were looking for. It’s a loose thread of a start- one obstacle, one hard pull away from unraveling a plan that hasn’t even been fully-formed. It’s a tenuous thing and it’s a sad state of affairs that this wisp of an idea is the best thing you’ve come up with even after scouring the dense underbelly of your mother’s research for days. You tell yourself that you’ll focus on Lumis’ writings and follow any leads, any outside sources that he cites for everything that he does. 

What you don’t expect is that you’ll find yourself elbow-deep in Florus’ dream diary, constantly redirected to a passage where he makes reference to an ancestor who disappeared millennia ago. An ancestor who keeps calling out to him from a black void in his dreams. An ancestor who Florus says calls out to every descendant, hands outstretched like clawed things; beckoning, cajoling, whispering in the ears of the children before finally falling away into a restless slumber when it’s ignored. An ancestor he says must _always_ be ignored. 

But for now? You can sleep.


	19. Ignis: Good Vibes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some OOC Iggy fluff that occurs between chapters in the main story. Anyway, this one is pretty damn lame. You’ve been warned. The song is “Pony” by Ginuwine which was suggested by a user on tumblr.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Suddenly Song Lyrics, Suggestive Themes (?), Shame Kills, You Really Need to Remember What’s on Your Playlists, Super AU, OOC Ignis, Iggy Doesn’t Give a Single Damn About Your Shame, Probably Because You’re a ‘Shameless’ Flirt

** Good Vibes  **

“Sorry, Specs, but we’re kinda in the middle of something...” 

“And Gladio is out chopping wood in the great outdoors like a lumberjack,” Prompto jokes. “Heh, sorry Ignis. Besides, it looks like it might _rain,_ ” the blond says seriously, like he’s made of sugar and will melt the second a drop of water lands on his head. Then again, he certainly _acts_ like his fluffy hair is cotton candy whenever you all get caught in the rain. 

You’re in the middle of one of Lumis’ passages about perfectly timing energy absorption with a yojimbo’s attack to create an enchantment that protects against darkness when this conversation takes place. Making a mental note of where you’re leaving off (“I found myself pelted with coins... the _agony_... However, I was certainly appreciative of my newfound wealth.”), you lower the book and watch the men. 

Last you checked, Noct and Prom were playing King’s Knight, not doing anything _serious_. And when you flick your gaze over them, they _still_ are- minus the occasional kick at each other’s feet now that Iggy is there. So, you can’t help but roll your eyes when they tell Ignis they’re “too busy” to accompany him on a late afternoon grocery run.  Snapping the grimoire shut, you look up to meet those verdant eyes (that are, oddly enough, already focused on you) and say, “I’ll go with you, Ignis,” you cut your eyes to the two lazy men who lounge in folding chairs, “because _I_ appreciate you.” 

Hell, if Gladio isn’t here to make them feel bad for leaving Iggy in the lurch, _you_ have to pick up the slack... Hence why you’ve earned the nickname “GladioLite” from Noct since you’re always telling him to mind his manners with the bespectacled man, correcting his form when he’s about to use his bottled magic, and generally being strict as hell whenever he dabbles in elemancy.  Steely cerulean eyes snap toward you as the prince scowls. “We _all_ appreciate him.”  


“Yeah!” Prom pipes up, though his eyes are glued to his flashing screen. “We totally appre- Ha!  Leveled up! In your _face_ , Noct!” 

“What?!” Noct is immediately absorbed in the game once more. “Did you grind while I was asleep? Cheater.” 

Ignis Scientia gives the two younger men one last look before returning his kind gaze to you. “Thank you, (y/n). I won’t keep you for too long.” 

“Please,” you sigh, standing and dusting yourself off, relieved to have something to do since your eyes were getting tired, “you can keep me as _long_ as you want.” 

It’s as you turn around to stuff your grimoire into your bag that it happens. It can only be described as a silent drama. You miss the teasing look Noct throws his childhood friend’s way. You miss the way Prom bites his bottom lip to keep from laughing, cornflower blue eyes on your back. You miss how Ignis shoots Noct a frigid stare that he then turns on to Prom, just _daring_ them to say something. When you turn back around, the drama is over. The guys are focused on their game and you and Iggy make your way to the Regalia. 

There’s a balmy breeze in the air and it smells clean and mild like rain is in the forecast. It’s overcast but Iggy keeps the top down. As you buckle up, you drum your fingers against your knee before asking, “Hey, Ignis?” 

“Yes?” The tactician replies primly, adjusting the rearview mirror and side mirrors to his liking since the prince was the last one to drive the car. 

“Do you mind if I put my _own_ music on?”  You’re making eyes at him. You’ve found that Ignis is particularly susceptible to you making your eyes all big. And when you tilt your chin down just a bit and look up at him through your lashes? Six, he’s absolute putty. In truth, he just enjoys letting you _think_ that you’re getting away with playing him.  It’s turned into this running gag with the others, though you don’t know it. Whenever they’re trying to convince Ignis to do something and he won’t relent (and you _aren’t_ around), one of the guys will say something along the lines of, “Will you do it if I give you ‘(y/n) Eyes’?” 

“Is there something wrong with the music that’s usually played?” Iggy queries innocently as he begins to drive down the road. 

“Aside from the fact that I feel like I’m going through the nine circles of hell since the same handful of songs are repeated nonstop? _Nah_. It’s _fine_.” 

The left corner of his mouth quirks. “Very well, (y/n). Play your music, lest I have to suffer through your sarcasm for the duration of the trip.” 

“Yes! Thank you!”  You hook up your phone and select your “Good Vibes” playlist. Honestly, you haven’t listened to this playlist in what feels like an age. When you first started this trip, you’d left the Spire in such a rush that you didn’t bring earbuds. And then, as the trip turned into more of a quest, you haven’t had a moment alone to sit back and listen to music. It’s either researching enchantments and spells using your family’s grimoire in conjunction with practical magic and one of the other ancient books you brought along, or talking strategy with your fellow royal advisors. 

The only down time you have has been spent playing tug-of-war with Prom over Noct’s attention or being the one tugged in all directions. Spaced out, you don’t really even hear the music _now_. You don’t hear Britney Spears sing about a threesome. You don’t hear Chrissy Amphlett croon about touching herself. And you totally miss Ariana Grande asking to be touched. But Ignis does.  Emerald eyes widen marginally and he shoots you a stealthy glance from the corner of his eye. He takes in the contemplative expression on your face, your fingers drumming against your knee in  thought. Iggy clears his throat and asks, “Do you enjoy these songs?” 

Snapping out of your daze, you turn your head to look at him just as the song switches to something safe and upbeat. “Uh-huh. I used to listen to these _all_ the time.” You smile brightly. “Now that I think about it, a lot of these songs kinda make me think of you.” 

A flash of green. A quick glance. “Is that so?”  


“Mmhm.”  


“And why is that, I wonder?”  


You throw him a grin and snark, “’Cause you always put me in a _good mood_ , Scientia.”  The hint of pink on his cheeks... oh, boy. Seeing Ignis flustered, even mildly so, has a way of clouding your judgment. Because you don’t stop while you’re ahead; you aren’t satisfied with the reaction you got. Oh, _no_! You just _have_ to unwittingly dig your grave just a bit deeper. And you do so with the most sinful smirk Ignis has ever seen on anyone’s face.  “Yeah... _all_ of these songs make me think of you, now that I think about it.” 

You _aren’t_ thinking about it. That’s the problem. It’s the _furthest_ thing from the truth, honestly. Because you aren’t thinking about the songs, you aren’t recalling exactly what you have on this playlist of music that you ripped off of the internet. The only thing you’re thinking about is making that blush a few shades deeper.  Mission accomplished. But _yours_ is going to be so much darker. 

The nearest gas station is a half-hour drive down the road from the campsite and it’s fitted with not only a convenience store but a few stalls where local farmers sell their crop. By the perky way Ignis sits as he drives, you can tell he’s looking forward to perusing the wares. But he’s also secretly pleased that you flirt with him when it’s just the two of you, and not just to tease him in front of the others. 

You gaze out at the scenery, loving the lush greenery and the rivers that you occasionally see. The bright music really sets the tone for you, too. This playlist was one of the things that kept you from going absolutely insane in the oppressive silence of the Spire. You’d dance around the library while others were in class or eating dinner. You’d sing along just to give some of the magisters a heart-atta-  “Oh, shit!” 

Ignis is very elegant, sophisticated, and respectable. He’s also, perhaps, the hardest for you to read and the most guarded around you. And, in truth, you’re always _desperately_ trying to impress him. Which is why, when one of your favorite but risqué songs plays and you’re too busy jamming and looking around that you don't immediately change it, you _freak out_.  Fingers are too numb and panicky to work your phone’s screen and you end up dropping it onto the console where it slips and hangs from its cable by Ignis’ leg. Hands fly out to the radio to change the song. What you end up doing is _blaring_ the volume at perhaps the _worst_ moment _._

“ _If you're horny, let's do it_  
 _Ride it, my pony_  
 _My saddle's waiting_  
 _Come and jump on i-_ ”

Something ambient and electronic plays after you press the skip button far too hard. You actually wind up jamming your index finger in your desperation. Iggy keeps his eyes on the road, face still as serene as ever, even as he carefully picks up your phone from where it hangs by his leg and blindly places it on your lap before lowering the volume. You’re sweating like you’re in a sauna after running a 5k, looking urgently for a safe spot to eject yourself from the Regalia toward.  And you ask, purely on instinct because these are the types of random-ass questions you fling the tactician’s way, “Do you think it would hurt to bail from a car at this speed?” 

“Come now, (y/n), we’re nearly there.” The smile in his voice is painfully obvious. “Just endure my company for a bit longer.” 

You look up to the cloudy sky and silently pray, _“Ramuh, if you’re out there... please kill me.”_ There’s a flash of lightning in the distance and you jolt, _“Never mind! Never mind!”_

After you’ve languished in your seat for long enough, you clear your throat and strike up a conversation with Ignis about what he’s planning on making for dinner, voice taking on a tremulous edge that you struggle to snuff out. When Iggy easily engages in conversation, you think the moment is forgotten.  It isn’t. 

When you two get to the store, Ignis whips out a list and quickly sets about purchasing everything he needs. You dawdle around the miniature farmer’s market, sniffing spices and haggling because you’re perhaps a bit too stingy when it comes to buying ingredients for poultices and salves (because you know you can just _find_ half this stuff out in the wild but you’re impatient).  A tap on the shoulder has you spinning around, kettier ginger and schier turmeric swinging along with you in little plastic bags. Emerald eyes glance down at your purchases before fixating on your curious face. “I’d like to buy you lunch as thanks for accompanying me, (y/n).” 

You grin widely and laugh, “And how can I say no to that? 

Sitting at one of the many little plastic tables in the parking-lot-turned-market, you wait for Ignis to come over with the food. You’re keeping watch over the groceries, though it’s highly doubtful that anyone would try to _steal_ them. Especially since the place is almost empty. Finally, Ignis returns with kabobs and lemonade in tow. The two of you dig in and the bespectacled gourmand starts taking notes, as usual. But... Honestly? You’re disappointed in the meal. It isn’t seasoned all that well and the meat is a little tough. 

Ignis immediately notices the subtle change in your demeanor. Usually you eat with gusto and even pick off of Noct’s plate if the prince is foolish enough to sit too close and if Gladio can’t be bothered to “save” the prince by offering you some of _his_ food.  “Is the food not to your liking, (y/n)?” 

You shrug, trying not to seem unappreciative. “It’s fine... but it’s _just_ fine. You know? But thank you! Seriously. I was getting hungry.” 

“I honestly think it’s splendid,” Iggy responds, eyebrows knitted together. He didn’t think you were so picky with your food. You always eat everything he makes at camp. 

“Well, you’ve just spoiled me, I guess,” you admit and finish the subpar kabob all the same. 

He clears his throat, fights off a flattered blush. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You’re _way_ out of everyone’s league, Ignis,” you sigh before sipping your lemonade, unaware of the tactician’s gaze. 

Surprisingly, he can’t think of anything to say other than, “Thank you.” 

When the conversation lulls, you get bored. Ignis always takes too damn long to eat. Then again, he tends to _savor_ his food while you still can’t break the bad habit of wolfing everything down like you’re pressed for time- always on the move, always something to write or study or research. Unfortunately for you, boredom has you appraising the brunet... another bad habit. But this one is fairly new- already a favorite of yours since you love looking at the man’s flawless face. And Iggy is always quick to notice your gaze. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” There’s a playful glint in Ignis’ eyes as he scolds, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a paper napkin, “Staring is rude, you know.” 

"You would've made a great magister," you suddenly blurt.  And you mean it, truly. You’ve thought so since you started getting to know him. He has a very caring side and a strict side- but his compassion usually outweighs his firmness. Sometimes you find yourself envying Noct for having Ignis and Gladio to guide him when he was growing up. Though you had your mother and Drusa, they couldn’t be there all the time to protect you from the cruelties of certain magisters. But if the magisters had all been like Ignis Scientia, you probably wouldn’t have left in the first place. 

Ignis, for his part, isn’t thrown off in the slightest by your sudden comment. "Is that a compliment?" You see green thinly veiled behind fine lashes. 

"Well, _yes_ it’s a compliment. You're multitalented, dedicated, passionate...” you trail off when you realize how intensely he’s staring at you. Swallowing hard, you finish, “ _Six_ , you have the stare of a basilisk. You wouldn’t have even needed to reprimand me to get me to fall in line.” 

“Is that so?”  His tone... His voice sounds deeper somehow, richer... Is this double entendre or something? Well, shit, you aren’t exactly experienced when it comes to stuff like this, so you can’t be too sure. All of your “experience” comes from living vicariously through film characters. 

You aren’t really sure what’s going on but you _do_ know that something is going _way_ over your head, so you reply innocently, “Yes.” 

Ignis’ eyes are hooded, unfinished kabob hanging from his fingers, elbows on the dingy plastic table as he leans forward to ask, “I can get you to do whatever I desire simply by looking at you?” 

“Ye- Wait. _What_? That’s not-!” You freeze and then begin to chug the rest of your lemonade before sputtering out, “Ju-Just _finish eating_ , Scientia. We have to hurry or the guys are gonna starve to death.” 

He smiles politely and concedes, “Of course, Iovita.” He leans back into his plastic chair and finishes his kabob.  On the drive back, all is quiet. That is, until you realize that you’d left your phone hooked up to the radio the whole time. As you’re internally reprimanding yourself for being so careless with the  device, something happens that makes your blood run cold and then hot. It feels like you’re frozen solid, eyes wide as the tactician reaches for your phone and brings it onto his knee. Clever fingers unlock it and flick through your playlists. Ignis turns up the volume and plays _that_ song. 

“ _The things I will do to you_  
You and your body  
Every single portion  
Send chills up and down your spine Juices flowing down your thigh” 

You melt into your seat and nearly combust when he starts humming along, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat. You’re just so immensely grateful that it’s a pretty short song.  Until you realize he put it on repeat.


	20. Noctis: The Petty Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Do you think Noctis is so used to Run!Reader picking off his plate he gets jealous if they eat from the other bros' plates? "my leftovers aren't good enough for you??"_
> 
> Short answer: Yes. Noct has a jealous streak and it comes out over the strangest things. ‘Cause this wasn’t a request and was just me bein’ a weirdo, it’s short and sweet. Well... “sweet” is debatable. Still, I hope y’all like it.
> 
> **Warnings:** OOC Galore, Who Asked for This?, No One, But Y’all Are Still Gettin’ It

** The Petty Prince  **

“Ooh, what are you making today, Ignis?”  You peer over the brunet’s shoulder, keeping a safe distance from what he’s cooking so as not to get lectured about food sanitation. Whatever it is, it smells wonderful. The savory aroma of braised meat and hearty broth has you salivating. Anything Ignis cooks pretty much garners this reaction from you. 

“One of your favorites,” Iggy finally responds, stirring the meat in the large pot, shoulder bumping up into your nose so you’re forced to back off. He apologizes quickly before actually answering your question, “King’s stew.” 

“ _Hm_? What did I do to earn your favor, Scientia?” You’re practically drooling on his shoulder again, already forgetting about the bump on your nose. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”  It’s early in the evening, but you’re all wiped out from hiking and monster hunting. Well, _Noct_ got wiped out. And when Noctis is tired, everyone stops to make camp. You just got up from pampering Noct and Prom with flurries of ice in the dry desert heat when you smelled food and _had_ to come over. 

“Do I need to have an ulterior motive to treat you, (y/n)?” Ignis queries, voice low. Suddenly feeling like you’re standing too close to him, you back away and clear your throat. Satisfied with your reaction, Iggy relents, “All right, you’ve found me out. My devious plot to bribe you for your flurries has been foiled.” 

You laugh at that, catching the attention of Noct and Prom who are playing King’s Knight. They watch as you materialize flurries around Iggy. The prince gazes at his two advisors for a moment before looking back at his screen. Prompto stares for a bit longer and kicks Noct’s foot when he levels up.  Little bits of slush stick to Ignis’ light brown hair and you whisk them away before they can melt and ruin his ‘do. Keeping him nice and cool from the combined heat of the desert and the cooking fire becomes your short-lived camp duty. 

Gladio rolls his eyes at you when he comes back from whatever strength training he was out doing today and snorts, “Suck up.” 

“Jealousy is _such_ an ugly look on you, Gladiolus,” you simper before hitting him with a burst of cold air that has a shiver running up his spine. 

All that sweat on his body makes the frigid air ten times more effective. He swears at you and you snicker. The Shield has learned that that evil little laugh of yours spells trouble, so he’s safe and sound in the tent before you can do anything else.  Dinner is served without further ado.  One disapproving glance from Iggy keeps you from torturing the prince’s bodyguard further and you sit next to Ignis this time around rather than your usual spot to Noct’s left. Though this game of musical chairs goes unnoticed by the others (or they, logically, don’t give a damn) two blue eyes keep finding their way to you. 

Okay, so, here’s the thing... 

The prince has grown accustomed to a certain level of attention from each of his friends. Does he _prefer_ being everyone’s favorite? Maybe... Possibly... _Definitely_. Iggy dotes on him, Prom basically worships him, and though Gladio is the hardest on him he’s always been there for the prince to lean on.  And since you met them all, you’ve always had Noctis pretty securely up on a pedestal. He’s your _prince_ , you’ve looked forward to being in his employ since you were a kid. Of course this would naturally be the established dynamic. It works for you both. 

Noct secretly enjoys being doted on and you blatantly enjoy doing the doting.  Not to say that Noct is the type to receive affection or attention and never return it. He’s stuck to Ignis like glue, is always there to listen to Prom’s worries, and pals around with Gladio. They’re his brothers. He would do anything for them.  And you? Noct gives you the type of attention he knows you enjoy: His food. Though he’ll caterwaul about you stealing his food all day, he actually enjoys it. Because he gets to give you food after you’ve protected him, even if he didn’t make it himself. Because it always makes you smile. 

It’s the little things.  


“Ah,” you sigh contentedly as you lean back, “that was spectacular as always, Ignis.” 

“You’re not gonna steal from anyone tonight?” Gladio asks from beside you, already preemptively lifting his bowl out of your reach. 

Eyes linger on your empty bowl in your lap and you sigh, “Well...” 

“Here, (y/n),” Ignis murmurs, moving his bowl close to you so he’s holding it between the two of you.  The brunet smiles when you happily share his food. Neither one of you notices Noct awkwardly sitting back down in his chair, already getting ready to coolly dump some of his food in your bowl. The prince’s cheeks color slightly and they only get darker when Prompto chuckles.  The prince’s brow furrows as he watches you and Iggy eat from the same bowl, everyone talking  like usual, like the greatest atrocity didn’t just occur and isn’t currently still being committed. What a bizarre feeling. What a strange thing to get so worked up over. Noct almost feels like he’s being _replaced_. 

Next time you all eat dinner together, the usual spots are taken, and you reach over to filch food from the prince’s plate. Noct quickly moves his plate out of reach and snaps pettily, “Knock it off. Why don’t you pick off of Specs’ plate?” 

You blink, bewildered, before answering with a coy smile, “C’mon, Noct,” you bump his elbow with yours, “you know food always tastes better when I steal it from you.” 

That must have been the correct answer to his catty question, because Noct turns his face away and casually slides his plate closer to you, wearing a not-so-secret smile. Unbeknownst to the prince, everyone exchanges a knowing look at this scene.  The Prince of Pettiness always gets his way.


	21. Deer in Headlights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Hey Wrath, just wanted to say that Run is the bee's knees. It's difficult finding x!Reader stuff—let alone long, well written stories that update regularly. Also, I wanted to request Magey at camp, thinking everybody is off doing their own thing. Having finally found some alone time for once in the trip, Magey takes it upon themselves to *RELIEVE TENSION* in the tent. Then whomever they happen to be paired with walks in on them. Can be Run/Dear Hearts etc. Pre-relationship preferably. u da bes_
> 
> Welcome to Cringe Town. Obviously this is NSFW and kinda explicit for some bros, not so explicit for others. I tried to keep it vague but the cringe is real. Pre-relationship, as requested. I'm so, so sorry for this.
> 
>  **Warnings:** NSFW, Language, Masturbation, Mild Voyeurism, Cringe, Embarrassment, That's One """Busy""" Mage, Noct Might Be Dead, Not Sure If Prompto Can Recover From That, Ignis Ain't So Smooth, Gladiolus...???, Just End Him

**Deer in Headlights**

Living in close quarters isn’t for everyone. Having had the privilege of having your own massive bedroom back at that lovely and antiquated college you came from? Life on the road has been a struggle to acclimate to after the luxuries afforded you by the Spire, to say the very least. Sometimes that fact manifests itself strangely; random arguments, a tightening in your neck. It comes up as  _stress_.

And stress? Well, that can be relieved in a few ways. The particular way of relieving stress that you’re thinking of today is something you’ve had to abstain from for weeks on end.

With four men sharing the same space as you, it’s not as though you’ve exactly had any privacy to engage in such activities- activities which aren’t fit for polite company. Privacy seems to be a thing of the past, what with you  _always_  being sandwiched between Prompto and Noctis in a motel bed or in sleeping bags. And you’d never  _dream_  of doing anything when everyone’s asleep,  _even if_  you’re quiet about it!

So, privacy? It’s one hot commodity on this quest and the moment it lands in your lap you grab it with gusto. Shame you only get it ‘cause you rolled your ankle earlier in the day. Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

It happened when you vaulted a highway guardrail. You’ve vaulted about a million at this point (damn Noct and his apparent hatred of established pathways and boundaries) but it was this  _one time_ , as you were fleeing a losing fight against vengeful cactuars, where your ankle decided it didn’t want to support you any longer and it blew out like a damn tire.

“Guys, I’ll be  _fine_ ,” you reassure them all after camp has been set up early to accommodate your injury (the swelling has stopped but you don’t dare put any pressure on your foot). There’s still so much to do today and all of it will have to be accomplished without you present. Normally that would get under your skin, to be left behind like you aren’t an asset on this quest.

But today? Damn you’re one high-strung mage and you all but chase the guys out of camp. What can you say? There’s always somebody breathing down your neck and now that you’ve got the chance to have these well-intentioned guys outta your hair, you’re not gonna do anything to ruin it. Like, say, falling for Prom’s puppy eyes or Noct’s unsubtle pout. Nope. Not falling for it. They’re all ushered out of the tent.

The weather is dreary; drizzling and gray with a bit of a nip in the air that makes short-sleeves uncomfortable. As a result, everyone’s all bundled up and you’re positive that the weather will have the guys rushing back to camp as soon as they come to the end of their laundry list of hunts and petty quests. Which means you’ll have to do this quickly.

Not much goes into “setting up.” That ankle of yours is pretty swollen, so you’re forced to adopt a reclined position atop your sleeping bag after you’ve zipped the tent flap. Such is the extent of your preparation. It’s a little sad, actually.

Eyes close and you set to work. This is methodical. You’re horny and paranoid, which means your imagination is going to be left to languish from your inattention because you just want to get this done as quickly as humanly possible. A tent with a zippered flap for a door? It’s not as if you’re taking care of business back at the Spire. At least in that dusty old college you had the reassurance of a door with a lock…

**Noctis**

They haven’t even been gone five minutes when Noctis starts to worry. Look, you took a pretty nasty fall and it was honestly a miracle that you didn’t snap your ankle like a damn uncooked spaghetti noodle. The way it bent? Oof, the memory of it and the weird  _squicky_  noise that the joint had made has Noct cringing and announcing, “I’m gonna head back real quick and check on (y/n).”

He feels like crap because he sort of had a hand in your ruination. As he fled the battle, he’d looked over his shoulder to see you going  _around_  the guardrail because it ended not five feet down the road, opening up to a legitimate pathway to safety. The prince had fired off a wisecrack about you being overly cautious and… well… here you all are. Damn your ego and damn his ability to get under your skin.

“You sure?” Prompto rips Noctis from his musings, pale eyebrows knitted together and bottom lip pouted out. He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops as he watches his best friend. Noct sure does look worried and the blond can’t say he blames the guy. “(y/n) seemed pretty adamant about stayin’ behind.”

“I’m sure they’re fine,” adds Ignis. The royal retainer is just being helpful. He knows what a worrier Noct can be, especially when  _you_  get thrown into the equation. Still, he can already see that his childhood friend won’t be swayed. “But if you’d like, I can go with-”

“Nah.” The raven-haired royal waves him off. Noct turns on his heel, hands in his pockets, and begins to head back to camp, debating if he should call on his delightful chocobo or not. He  _should_  but he doesn’t. Oh, how that noisy bird would’ve saved a lot of embarrassment… “I’m just gonna check on ‘em real quick.”

Gladiolus complains at his back, “We  _just_ left camp.”

“For the last time, I’ll be  _quick_  about it. Be right back.” As Noctis returns to camp, grumbling under his breath, he rolls his eyes. Gosh, what’s with all the busybodies, wonders the busiestbody, leaving the others to get dunked on by a pack of coeurls that the hunter they’d taken the bounty from led them all to believe would only be the  _one_  coeurl. How was the hunter to know that the coeurl had started its own gang?

There’s an apology being cooked up in the royal’s head as he meanders through the verdant forest, ignoring the soft taps of raindrops pelting the hood of his raincoat and following the winding dirt trail that leads to the encampment. He knows he’s gotta be sincere about his apology and tonight at dinner he’ll give you half his food as a sign of peace.

‘Cause, let’s be real, you wouldn’t have got injured if he hadn’t rattled your cage. But, gods, does the prince sure find riling you up irresistible. The way your eyes shine and how your eyebrows furrow? With that cute little scowl on your face? Boy, Noct sure is such a sucker for you. Lost in thoughts of your petulant pouts, Noctis waltzes right up to the tent and unzips the flap without a single pause.

But then he hears it.

A huff of breath. A strained groan followed by the sound of something familiar but difficult for the brunet to place. Head ducked down as he enters the tent, Noct doesn’t realize what he’s hearing until it’s too late, blue eyes lifting to fall on you. Blood runs cold with fear for a split second before warmth pools low in his stomach. There must’ve been a necromancer hiding in here because he’s been turned to stone.

On all fours, half his body inside the comfortingly warm tent with his lower half still getting pelted by icy rain, the prince freezes. Dark bangs obscure those soulful blue eyes as usual, but you know without a single doubt in your mind that he’s  _looking_ … but you can’t move to hide yourself. Why didn’t you do this _inside_ your sleeping bag? Why didn’t you at least throw a damn blanket over yourself? Why?!

Mouth opens and closes a few times before any words manage to climb their way out, making the prince look a bit like a fish out of water. “I-I-I… wanted to say…” words turn solid in his throat, choking him. Why isn’t he looking away? Why is he  _still_  staring at your hand which is unfortunately petrified between your shaking thighs? Mouth is dry. His pants have become too tight at the front. That discomfort snaps him out of it. “Sorry!” And then he’s gone.

Horrorstruck and mortified, you stare at the open tent flap, listening to the sound of Noctis sprinting away in the rain. It actually sounds like he trips and falls in a puddle before getting up and booking it once more. He does. After a few seconds, your shock wears off and you yank your pants back up a bit too late. Well… Now you can’t finish and now you’re never going to be able to look Noctis in the eye ever again.

He catches up to the others in no time flat, not even noticing how banged up and bruised they all are from yet another failed fight. The sight of his bro’s cherry red and mud-splattered face has Prompto’s interest, distracting him from tending to his own wounds. With a curious frown, the blond wonders, “What the heck happened to you, dude?”

“Ah…” A lie is sought out in vain, chased away by that breathy moan of yours which seems to echo in his mind, stirring his heart and warming his cheeks. Before his imagination can take hold of him, the prince vigorously shakes his head like a wet dog (to Prompto’s complete confusion) and clears his throat. Somehow, his cheeks go even redder as he pulls his raincoat closer around himself. “N-Nothing.”

* * *

**Prompto**

A habitual worrier, it comes as no surprise when the sharpshooter abruptly opts out of the day’s hunts to take care of you. He’s worried! And he’s also  _so in love_! Look, although the guy can break the world record for falling in love the fastest, with you it’s…?  _Different_. His feelings for you are different from every other crush he’s ever had. It’s more intense. It’s more meaningful because he  _knows_  you.

The two of you are best friends. You’re so close that you actually share food (unlike how you steal Noct’s). Generally, you’re both obnoxious as hell to the other guys what with Prom’s very obvious crush on you and your (not so obvious) crush on him.

“They’re a big mage,” Gladdy scolds, quick to shoot the sharpshooter down, arms crossed at the blond who is seeking to bail on them when they’re about to go on a big hunt. “Besides, what can you do for ‘em that they can’t do for themselves?”

Ouch. Sometimes Gladiolus can be unnecessarily harsh. But he has a very good point. Prompto isn’t a healer and you’re the one with all the magic. If your ankle is really bothering you that much, you’ll just ice it yourself and be done with it. At best, Prompto will keep you company. At worst, he’ll be in your hair when you’re in pain and wanting to rest.

Far too stubborn, Prom brushes off Gladdy’s concerns with a shrug. “I have to check. If it was Noct with a sprained ankle you wouldn’t be giving me such a hard time.”

Funny thing about the blond: he has a razor-sharp tongue that can cut down his foes. Though he’s far from rude, he makes his point and leaves the others knowing that he won’t be persuaded. ‘Cause it’s true. If it was Noctis who had rolled his ankle while fleeing a losing battle, they’d  _all_  be at camp right now. Sure you aren’t royalty but you’re the apple of Prompto Argentum’s eye.

“Tell ‘em hi for me.” Noctis smiles. The raven-haired royal knows Prompto better than anyone and while he’s also concerned about you (your ankle was  _so swollen_  when he saw it) he’s trying to support his best friend’s burgeoning crush by giving you two some time alone. The prince’s well-wishes are an unsubtle cue to his advisors that he won’t abide them haranguing the guy over some perceived dereliction of duty.

With a grin brighter than the sun, Prom nods. “Will do!”

Even as he turns away and heads off with a pep in his step that greatly contrasts the dreary weather, he frowns the second he’s sure no-one can see his face. Doubt creeps up. Because you  _had_  rather adamantly ordered everyone out of camp, insisting that they all continue on with the day’s agenda without you. Why were you so insistent on being alone? What if you’re pissed that he came back?

Pebbles get kicked and puddles are splashed in. All sorts of petty distractions are partaken in to buy him time to either change his mind or commit to returning to camp. Before he knows it, he’s standing before the dark green tent with his hands in his pockets. Raindrops cling to his hair, pulling his bangs down into his face until he swipes them away. Guess his choice was made for him, huh?

Feeling as giddy as he always does at the prospect of seeing you, the shutterbug puts on a smile and crouches down to unzip the tent when he hears something that roots him to the spot. Labored breathing. A shifting of a sleeping bag. Now he knows why you wanted to be alone. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine you raising your hips, thighs quivering and- Prompto stands abruptly, hand clamped over his mouth.

Too afraid to move. Too aroused to think that moving wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. Imagination runs wild, taking Prompto’s common sense along with it. Outside of the tent, he stands like a statue, listening to you gasp softly and moan. Such sinful sounds are nearly drowned out by the pattering of rain against the tent. In order to better hear you, the blond comes closer.

Cheeks so red, he pictures what he believes to be on the other side of the tent’s thin walls. He wishes he could make you make those noises, especially the high groans that are likely accompanied by the spreading of your thighs and the arching of your back. For a moment, he forgets that he’s leaning against a canvas tent and  _not_  a solid wall.

It happens in a blink. Does he crave death when he sends the tent collapsing atop the object of his affection as they’re masturbating? Yes. Desperately. And he doesn’t care how painful death would be because it couldn’t possibly be anymore painful than  _this_. The blond is spread-eagle on the ground, tent poles and fabric haphazard, with you somewhere in the half-collapsed thing.

You immediately recognize that silhouette (the one that’s crumpled against the collapsed portion of the tent) by the person’s hair. Heat rises mercilessly into your face as you hastily pull up your pants. “Prompto?”

The lump hesitantly responds, “Ye-Yeah?”

“No, I... was just checking to see if it was you.”

“Oh…” There’s a careful  _ziiiiip!_  as you slowly open the tent flap to escape the ruins of the tent. Neither one of you looks the other in the eye, even when Prom mumbles, "N-Noct says hi..."

In silence, the two of you set the tent back up; you hobbling on one good foot and Prompto trying to keep his hips turned away from you  _just so_. When the others return from quite possibly the worst hunting trip in the history of mankind, they’re completely confused to find you two sitting around a roaring campfire in total silence, both staring into the flames with dead-eyed expressions.

* * *

**Ignis**

He’s torn in two. To stay by Noctis’ side or to return to camp to be sure that you’re properly looked after? The tactician can’t be sure if you’ll tend to your ankle satisfactorily, considering you’ve “walked off” bone bruises in your shins and fractured ribs before anyone realized you’d been injured. How is he to be sure that this “sprained ankle” isn’t something more serious?

The brunet’s anxiety is a palpable thing, sending Noct’s Iggy-Radar pinging off of the charts. Doleful blue eyes peer at him from beneath dark bangs and the royal retainer blushes. “You okay?” Noct wonders, making Ignis’ blush that much deeper when the others come to a halt to look at him, too. “You worried about (y/n)?” Is it possible for Iggy to go redder? Amazingly, yes.

With a dignified clearing of his throat, the older man replies, “I’m concerned that that sprain might be something more. However, as long as (y/n) stays off of it-”

“Just go back and check on ‘em,” interrupts Noct. The prince whips out his phone and checks his map. Blue eyes scan the screen for a viable fishing spot. He figures he’ll kill two birds with one stone. “‘Cause I know you worry a lot, we’ll just hang at a pond for a bit until you’re done. We won’t go after the coeurl without you. That way I can get some fishing in and you can clear your conscience.”

“My conscience isn’t-”

“Here, I’ll text you the location,” the prince interrupts  _yet again_  and Iggy is less than impressed. Little does he know that his childhood best friend is already well aware of his crush on the arcane advisor. Very sneaky, Noct. But how could he miss the longing stares and the way Specs conveniently makes your favorite dishes at camp? “See you later. Oh, and say hi to (y/n) for me. C’mon guys.”

Gladiolus tosses Ignis an exasperated look, clearly sympathizing with his fellow advisor, for Noct’s occasionally bossy moods are infinitely tiring. Left to his own devices with Noctis making it abundantly clear that he’s to go look after you at camp to ease his worries, Ignis sighs in defeat and quickly makes his way back to the forest campsite.

Ignis is worried that he’s going to find you meandering about camp with your nose in a book and a cup of piping hot coffee or tea in your hand, as you’re wont to do, rain or shine. He wants you off of your damn feet and resting! But, oh, are you off your feet and it definitely isn’t in a way that Iggy was imagining. The brunet is satisfied to see that the tent is zipped shut when he gets to camp, meaning that you’re likely indoors and out of the rain.

It’s quiet save for the gentle pattering of rain against the tent and the stone campground, making for a soothing ambiance that puts him at ease. Unfortunately for him, his anxiety is going to go ratcheting back up through the damn roof in a matter of seconds. And it starts with him unzipping the tent in one elegant swish and entering the warm, cozy confines without delay.

In the throes of your orgasm you’re suddenly struck down with horror as you spot the intruder at the last possible moment and cry out, “Ignis!” It’s far too late to stop. It’s far too late for a lot of things…

Maybe you should’ve been loud? Maybe you should’ve toned down the paranoia and let yourself be vocal as you edged toward climax because  _at least_  you never would’ve known that Ignis heard you because he wouldn’t have entered the damn tent in the first place? You’re regretting so much in this moment, trembling as you come down from that high, but you’re not regretting this  _nearly_ as much as Iggy.

You’ve never seen him look so flustered before and he plays it off about as well as can be expected, cheeks flushed crimson and sweat already beading on his brow.

Kneeled in the tent’s entrance, the strategist attempts to compose himself like he didn’t just walk in on his crush and fellow advisor as they orgasmed and like he doesn’t now know  _exactly what you look like_  when you orgasm. What’s he supposed to do with that knowledge? I mean, he knows what he  _wants_  to do with that knowledge but it probably isn’t something that he  _should_  do.

At this point, his ears are ringing with how hard he’s blushing. “Ha-Have you already prepared a cold compress for your ankle?” He adjusts his glasses though they haven’t budged an inch down the elegant slope of his nose, eyes staring fixedly at the tent’s floor.

It takes a moment for you to process what he just asked. “No…” Six your voice is so soft and quiet. It makes his cheeks go even redder because he can’t get the soft, strained, desperate sound of you cumming out of his head. And to make matters worse, he isn’t sure if you cried out his name in shock  _before_  you actually started cumming or if it was  _after_  or…  _during_ … Forgive him, Iggy is so rattled that he’s forgotten the sequence of these terrible events.

Ignis swallows audibly, suddenly finding that his throat is far too tight. “Ah. I see. I’ll prepare one while you... finish up.” His mouth is very dry. There’s a stirring in his loins as embarrassment gives way and blood rushes south. “As you were.”

As you were?  _As you were_?! You’ve already finished! There’s nothing left for you to do but die!

For his part, the brunet is already halfway out of the damn tent when he says that, practically scrambling to distance himself from a nightmare situation that he honest to gods has no idea how to handle. And you? You’re left to stare at the tent’s entrance with Ignis’ oddly edgy voice banging against your eardrums. Neither one of you is gonna make eye contact for a solid week.

* * *

**Gladiolus**

He’d swept you up in his arms the second that he realized you were about to fall. Gladiolus had been your gallant hero and... and it was  _way too arousing_ , which is what leads you to believe that you’ve let yourself get too sexually frustrated if such a simple action had your imagination going to titillating places. Cheek pressed against a muscular pec, you’d felt a tingling in your loins that couldn’t be ignored. At least not easily.

Oh, how your crush on the Shield has been a thorn in your side. Why’d you have to develop feelings for the  _one guy_  who loves to go shirtless as often as he can get away with it? Even though you just told yourself that you have to make this quick while the guys are away, Gladiolus Amicitia gave you more than enough masturbation fodder with the effortless way that he rescued you today.

Laid out on your sleeping bag, all you can think about is the feeling of his soft skin and how, once, he’d stood up and stretched at camp and you’d seen a hint of well-groomed hair peeking up at you from beneath the waistband of his pants. Sometimes that memory comes out of nowhere to hit you like a truck barreling down a highway. Like now. You think about it as your hand travels down your stomach.

Out walking along the highway on the other side of the guardrail so that nobody gets run over by a car, Gladiolus broods. Dark eyebrows are knitted together as he thinks about his dear, foolish, magical pal whom he just so happens to have a lot of unexpressed romantic feelings directed toward. Sure he teases you and never fails to fling innuendo your way, but that’s just Gladdy being a joker. Or so you think.

Right now he’s concerned. You messed up your ankle pretty bad and he’s worried that you don’t know how to deal with a sprain, considering you likely never got injured like that in the Spire. Plus, you’ve a notoriously bad reputation for “toughing things out.” An anak had kicked you clear into another century during a fight and nobody knew you fractured a rib until after dinnertime when Prom playfully swatted at your stomach and your face got all pinched up. You’d  _tried_  to laugh through it…

A frustrated sigh draws Noct’s attention to his Shield. Through a veil of gray mist, he watches the older guy until Gladiolus realizes he’s being stared at. Damn, sometimes His Highness is like an alleycat with that unblinking stare. It’d be unnerving if Gladdy didn’t know Noct better. “What’s up?”

“You’re thinkin’ about (y/n), huh?”

Pleasant warmth blossoms into the Shield’s cheeks as he unabashedly admits, “Yeah.” His crush on the nerdy arcane advisor is obvious to everyone  _but_  you.

“Just check on ‘em real quick. We can survive without you against one coeurl.”

Prompto kinda side-eyes Noct for that statement but decides to push a far more interesting topic. Looking far too excited, he asks, “I wonder when (y/n)’s gonna realize that you like them, Gladio?”

And that’s Gladiolus’ cue to head out lest he wants to subject himself to the gossip fiend’s speculations on what he should do to get your attention (like spontaneous requests for a date, or, and this is  _really_  scraping the bottom of the barrel, appeals to your  _jealousy_ ). Not wanting a headache so early in the day, Gladiolus does an abrupt about-face and with the permission of His Highness he returns to camp.

The rain begins to come down harder, feeling like icy daggers against his skin as the water bleeds through the sweater under his raincoat. Such cold, clammy discomfort is what has him hastening to get to the camp, lengthening his stride with purpose. Now he has two goals: to check on you and to get out of the rain. Perhaps that’s what clouds his judgment when he gets to camp and hears a peculiar noise when he’s right outside the tent?

Under normal circumstances, say, when you’re  _not_  injured and when he’s  _not_  soaked to the bone, he’d know that sound from a mile away. But right now? He mistakes the sound for pain. It’s tight, strained, and desperate. Then he hears you cry out, “Gladdy!” and that has him rushing into the tent to the stimulating sight of spread legs and vigorously moving hands- something that he’s going to think about for a long,  _long_  time.

It’s always going to stick in his mind that you used both of your hands very skillfully with his name on your tongue. When he’s alone, he’s gonna edit his fantasies with the knowledge that (y/n) Iovita uses both of their hands on themselves and calls his name. Excuse him. He’s a little stunned. You can tell because as you yell his name with a very different inflection and you yank your pants up, he still hasn’t blinked or said a thing.

Heartbeat pounds in your ears. At any moment, you think you might die of shock and embarrassment. And it only gets worse when Gladiolus finally seems to snap out of his stupor only to look you dead in the eye, the ultimate power move. “Need anything for that ankle?” Oh, gods, you’re dead. You’re dead! He heard you call his name as you “took care of” yourself and… and…

Miserably, you sink low on your sleeping bag and murmur, “N-No…”

“Okay.” The Shield sniffs, rubs his nose. “I’ll, uh, see ya later then.” And then it happens and you see it. A slight quirk of the corner of his mouth into a pleased smile. Yeah… Yeah… You’re dead but Gladiolus is  _living_  as he exits the tent to return to the others. Sure, that was awkward as hell, but… Gladiolus is grinning from ear to ear because  _you said his name_.


	22. Heated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _Dunno if you take requests anymore but I'd honestly like to know how the chocobros would react to iovita having a bad day in general (we all have those) and they just accidentally say/do the wrong thing in that moment that sets our beloved iovita off Either angry with the whole group or individuals is up to you But I must admit the idea of the whole 'im over it already' attitude of the iovita and the guys all uncertain if they're still mad is funny_
> 
> Since this was pretty open-ended, here’s what y’all get. This kinda ended up not fitting with what was asked but there's still a bad mood and unfortunate bystanders.
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Excessive Expletive Usage, Bad Writing, Anxious Driving, Stress Swearing, Bless Ignis, Gladio Being Gladio, Worried Bros, Road Rage

**Heated**

It’s raining. The guys  _hate it_  when you drive that dorky moped of yours in the rain; each looking in the rearview mirror or turning their head _just so_  in the backseat of the Regalia so that they can watch you, as if watching the mage will keep them from becoming waterlogged. And you’ve noticed. You find it kind of funny, actually, that they get so bent out of shape by you getting rained on.

Because it’s _just_  rain.

And yet, today, lightning steaks across the sky and suddenly the Regalia is being pulled off to the side of the road. The shoulder here in Alstor Slough is wide enough for tourists to park and gaze at the gigantic catoblepas down below. You think maybe that’s why Iggy pulled over: a quick little stop because Prompto wants a photo or something with those creatures in the background.

In the Regalia, tensions begin to ramp up. Ignis glances to the side curiously, watching Prompto’s knee bob up and down rapidly just as he puts the car in park. Look, you’re still new and they’re  _all_ still holding you at arm’s length (even if Iggy and Gladdy might deny it). Although they were all totally cool with pulling over and stuffing you in the backseat between Noct and Gladio, a sudden fear has hit the most sensitive member of the group.

“Wait!” Prompto shouts the very second that the wheels come to a full stop. The blond ignores the irritated look Iggy shoots him for his unnecessary tone of voice. “What if (y/n) gets mad?”

“Mad?” Gladdy snorts, not understanding why the resident mage might get pissed about riding in the dry car. So far, you’ve been of even temperament. There have been no outbursts or any emotion falling anywhere on the spectrum of “anger” from you. At least, not from what the Shield has seen.

Prom pops up out of his seat to hug his seat’s headrest so he can look at his friends. “They’re pretty independent; always going off on their own to find herbs and junk.” Big blue eyes blink, utilized as deadly weapons to unfairly win an argument. “Don’t you think this might be kinda… patronizing? They’ve driven their scooter in the rain a  _bunch_  of times. So what makes now different? I mean, from their point of view.”

And, of course, he begins to make Noctis doubt. The younger men have been kind of “weird” with you since the beginning. And by “weird” I mean they both immediately thought you were super cute and have been jumping through hoops to try and impress you and not come across as socially inept weirdos; propping each other up and encouraging one another to talk to you alone or give you gifts of food or books: your favorite things.

Suddenly very concerned, Noct murmurs, brow puckered and eyes a little shifty, “Y’know, I think you might have a point, Prompto.”

You’re a creature of habit, that much the prince knows. That daily schedule of yours is airtight: you wake up at 4 a.m., do solo training drills or go out to hunt for herbs and other stuff (depending on the camp’s location), read that family grimoire of yours, and then you have breakfast with everyone at 6 a.m. on the dot. Honestly, Noct could set a damn watch to you, you’re so damn predictable. And your lame scooter plays a big role in your habits: it has been your sole mode of transport since it got fixed.

Add in the fact that it has obvious sentimental value (oh, the stories you told of Magister Drusa teaching you to drive it) and Noctis highly doubts you’ll just leave the thing on the side of the road for  _their_  comfort. Besides, if you really had an issue with driving in the rain, you would’ve said something by this point. Gods, the longer he thinks about this, the more their friendly gesture seems like a jerk move. And the last thing Noct wants is for you to think he’s a  _jerk_.

“Ugh,” groans Gladio, who can practically read his prince’s pale face. Many a time this damn pint-sized blond has talked His Highness out of stuff (like going to _class_ , for example). One might think Prompto Argentum was an  _actual advisor_  to the Crown Prince, he’s so persuasive. Irritated, the Shield finds himself arguing rather heatedly, “(y/n) isn’t gonna get mad about  _sitting in a car_. Trust me, neither one of you will be ruining your chances with them today.”

In the front seat, Iggy pinches the bridge of his nose. Gladiolus’ bluntness isn’t doing anyone any favors here.

All aghast that he’s been so painfully obvious about his infatuation with you, Prompto sputters, red in the face, “Wh-Wh-What? No!  _No_! I’m not-!”

At the same time, Noct scoffs so hard that he nearly chokes on his own spit, “Yeah,  _right_. That’s not even-”

“Please finish this some time soon. (y/n) is starting to stare,” Ignis sighs, glancing in the rearview mirror to watch you start to remove your helmet and throw the Regalia a curious look. “Not to mention, we’re currently making them wait in the rain. Which is far more offensive than offering them a ride, I can assure you both.”

Catoblepas musk hangs heavy in the air with thick humidity, the scent of algae and dung offset by sweet rain. After you’ve kicked out the kickstand and taken off your helmet, water rolling off of the white plastic, you turn toward the sleek black car expectantly. No one has exited yet. Shaking out your black jacket, you adjust the lavender Spire cardigan underneath before sauntering on up to the driver’s side window.

At the sudden burning feeling the bespectacled brunet is starting to get in the side of his head, the strategist turns to find Prompto glowering at him, arms crossed and huffing in the passenger’s seat. In the back seat, Noct looks much the same. Again, Iggy sighs. “If this truly worries you, we can come up with an excu-”

_Tap! Tap!_

In the driver’s seat, Ignis jolts to attention. And thus, here you are. Tired of waiting and totally unaware of the petty and paranoid argument going on in the cozy confines of the Regalia, you interrupt before fears can be assuaged. ‘Cause now Prompto is having a stroke and Noctis is sweating bullets while the older men remain nonplussed and maybe mildly irritated at having such a simple gesture warped into a social faux pas by two over-thinking dorks.

The window gently rolls down. Green eyes dart over your rain-streaked face. “I apologize, (y/n).” He speaks slowly as if delaying. “We were all just having a chat about-”

And he  _is_  stalling. A tried and true method to gently coax his prince and childhood friend out of his shell, Ignis sets everything up so that the reins are in Noctis’ hands and the prince can solve his little conundrum how he sees fit. Though Iggy certainly sees nothing wrong with offering you a ride (‘cause it ain’t that deep), he’s considering Noct’s feelings. Despite Ignis’ skilled way of drawing out his words, Noct  _still_ feels pressured.

“Wanna learn how to drive the Regalia?” Noct blurts before he can stop himself.

“Sure!” You blurt before you can, too.

Oh, no…

Never one to deny your prince much of anything (you spoil him so much already), yours is more a knee-jerk reaction to his seemingly enthusiastic question than a sincere one. Because, oh boy.

Just because you drive your moped that doesn’t mean you automatically mastered how to drive other vehicles. And your chocobo-yellow moped is…  _different_. It’s nice and compact and offers you a certain level of control that you don’t think a giant hunk of death-trap metal can. Sure, wrecks are far less risky in a car and you’re less likely to go flying through the air like you did when Ignis ran you down, but Choco Jr. is  _your ride_.

Now Noctis and Prompto are relieved to have a “viable” reason to have you nice and dry in the car but two other parties are freaking the hell out: you and Ignis. The man has broken out in a cold sweat already. Heavy rain is hardly the ideal condition in which to give someone their first driving lesson! Ignis is already getting heart palpitations for you and himself. Look, he’s  _seen you_  drive. You text Noct and Prom  _while you drive_. Sometimes you don’t  _signal_  when you change lanes. Oh, Six.

Still, he smiles in that charming way of his and asks you to back up from where you’ve been leaning through the window. The door opens and spots are switched. Prompto is ordered into the back seat between Noct and Gladio (there was some bickering, Prom and Noct both hate the middle seat and Gladio had a look on his face that dared them to try and get him to move). Behind the wheel, you take a breath. In the passenger seat, Ignis says a silent prayer.

All the while, Gladiolus has been almost comically blasé throughout all of this; legs crossed with his right ankle planted on his left knee and his book propped up on his leg. He doesn’t see what the big deal is. But, oh, he’s about to.

It’s a personality thing. A little quirk that only Ignis has noticed so far, the only one who spends the most time with you as a consequence of the hours that you both keep. An early-morning ritual that sometimes consists of cussing out inanimate objects when that strict schedule of yours doesn’t go to plan. It’s… Okay, truly? Ignis thinks it’s absolutely  _hilarious_  but he doesn’t know how  _that_  will translate to _this_. You’re a stress-swearer.

Sure, you may drop a casual “fuck” into conversation or “shit” or maybe a colorful “eat my  _entire_  ass” to magitek soldiers, but that’s not quite the same as the diatribes you go off on to fallen books or dried-out pens or even stinging paper cuts. Those? Oh, ho, ho. Those are what made Iggy doubt that the things that he previously defined as “diatribes” were actually diatribes. What you do are animated tirades full of aggressive gesticulation and passionate facial expressions.

This is gonna be one hell of a ride.

And to start it all off, Ignis has to clear his throat and remind you, “Seatbelt.”

“Oh,” you chuckle, a quaver in your voice, “right.” Hands shake, fingers fumbling with the buckle before it finally goes in with a  _click!_ that’s barely audible over the sound of rain pattering against the windshield.

“Adjust your mirrors.”

In the backseat, as you’re being politely guided through the motions, Noct and Prom have already whipped out their phones so they aren’t getting clued in on what’s about to go down. You have exactly  _zero_  experience with driving a car. None. The two dorks are just content with themselves that you don’t know that you’re here because they were all feeling protective and overbearing. In fact, everyone gets lulled into a false sense of security when you smoothly pull out onto the road.

This is gonna be a short but memorable ride.

Lightning streaks across the dark sky once more, followed shortly by a clap of thunder. You can practically feel the engine running through the carseat or maybe you’re too high-strung because you’re used to the relatively low power of your outdated moped. However, as you continue to go down a (very) straight road, you start to think that this isn’t so bad. I mean, you’re dry, warm, and aren’t going to have to “magic” yourself dry later with a burst of heat. All in all, this is pretty okay.

Ignis gives you pointers and Gladiolus adds his own advice (“Always keep your foot on the brake, Magey. Make sure you check the speedometer frequently unless you wanna be known as a speed daemon like His Highness.”). Even Noctis tries to pipe in only to get brutally shut down by everyone, including Prompto. The blond had chuckled at his pal’s offended expression and jokingly confessed, “Dude, you kinda suck at driving. I’m not gonna lie.”

“Yeah,” drawled Gladio, “you’re even worse than the guy who totaled the Regalia over a dog.”

“Was I supposed to just run it over?!”

Such an atmosphere of comfortable camaraderie is put to a very abrupt end when you continue to coast down the highway only to be forced to slam on the brakes due to a little black car cutting you off. It comes barreling out of nowhere off of a side street, blowing through a stop sign. You blare the horn right as the car shoots in front of you and the driver slams on the brakes in their shock, the black car momentarily hydroplaning before shaking to a halt.

Hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles paling. It’s hard to swallow. Fear is what grips you and it’s expressed as unadulterated rage. It comes frothing up, like acid in the back of your throat. One second you’re sat in shock, wide eyes locked on the driver’s barely visible but ashen face, and then next you’re blaring the horn with one hand, flipping the guy off with the other, and belting out: “What the fuck is your problem, you fucking fuck?! Learn to fucking drive before you kill somebody!”

Having been running at a pretty elevated stress level throughout this little lesson due to your inexperience, pretty much  _anything_  could’ve set you off. But this? What could be classified broadly as a near-death experience (if one’s definition of such a thing is generous)? You go  _off_ , calling the stranger a wide array of names that all have some variation of “fuck” in them. The whole time you’re still blaring the horn and the driver is wincing and meekly shrugging his shoulders like this was no big deal.

"You don't have to lean on the horn like that,” Ignis points out, irritated that you’re still honking that damn horn and sometimes using it to emphasize your words (”Stop! Means! Stop! Asshole!”).

The horn honking abruptly ends. Head whips around and you coldly rebuke, face eerily placid and eyes unblinking, “I learned it from  _you_.”

He almost gasps and puts his hand on his chest at the insinuation that he’s a “bad influence,” but the strategist refrains. ‘Cause you’re  _kinda_  right. Many a time Iggy has stoically dug the heel of his palm into the car horn, eyes unblinking and locked on a frazzled driver who nearly ran the Regalia off the rode in their inattention, or forgot to turn their blinker on to merge lanes, or took too long to drive through a green light. He’s the passive-aggressive driver.

Everyone is shocked.

It’s like a switch was flipped from hot to cold. You don’t  _yell_. (y/n) Iovita, the prim and proper arcane advisor, doesn’t have  _road rage_. Prompto is a little rattled. The first time he ever had a near miss, he cried about it after because he’d been so frightened. Noct is startled. He thought you might cry like Prompto if you almost wrecked… not like he was  _expecting_  you to nearly get in a car crash. And Gladiolus-

“Quiet, Gladiolus,” you snap, throwing him an unamused glance in the rearview mirror. He’s been trying to hold back his laughter since you called the other driver a “fucking fuck” but he accidentally let a snort slip out. The Shield bites down on his lips, holding his laughter in the back of his throat. Maybe it  _is_  dickish of him to laugh when your life has just flashed before your eyes?

You turn your attention back to the road to see that the other car already drove off. And like a hot pan that just got dumped into a sink full of cold water, you quickly cool off with a hiss of steam. Shoulders slouch, fingers readjust on the steering wheel with a crackling of stiff joints, and you gently pump the gas. Noct and Prom have become awkward bystanders. Phones are used as an excuse not to make eye contact with anybody, noses practically pressed to the screens.

Little do they know, you’re cool as a cucumber right now.

What? You don’t have a reason to be upset. The source of tension is gone and nothing hateful or regrettable was done. In fact, you smoothly make a U-turn when the width of the street is wide enough to your liking and begin to head back to where you parked your moped now that nobody is offering anymore driving tips. You just assume that the lesson is over. You’ve no idea that everyone is fumbling to absorb this new facet of you; this part that actually yells in anger and isn’t all that creative with name-calling.

The drive back is dead silent, a far cry from the jocular atmosphere. Ignis and Gladiolus- the two who feel like they might’ve done something to earn your ire since you got snippy with them- are very, very quiet. No one looks at each other, feeling like scolded children.

Every now and then you glance out at the scenery that goes by. You must admit, Alstor Slough is really beautiful  _even if_  Noctis always complains about the smell. In fact, you kinda miss how you can feel the humidity against your skin when you ride your moped as opposed to being sheltered in a car. You highly doubt anybody will be game for you to lower the Regalia’s roof. It’s still raining, after all, and no one but Gladio is really the type to willingly be exposed to the elements.

A pop of vibrant yellow comes into view, standing out against a backdrop of miserable gray. Choco Jr. is a sight for sore eyes.

“Well, that was fun,” you sigh during the trade-off with Iggy after you’ve parked. Gladio gets out so that Prompto can resume his position in the passenger’s seat which he’s eternally called dibs on. But rather than sit back in the Regalia, the Shield crosses in front of the car to come stand by you. You’re smiling that charmer’s smile, the one that’s all dazzling teeth and glinting eyes. The tactician and the bodyguard don’t really know what to say. Should they apologize? But for what exactly?

Ignis speaks first, brow furrowed and expression sincere. “I’m sorry, (y/n).”

“Yeah,” says Gladio, “me too, Magey."

“Hm?” You look genuinely confused, gaze flitting between the two. “Sorry for what?”

Well, you’ve got them there. This is pretty much your first fight with them, right? When neither one of them responds immediately, cheeks beginning to burn a little pink as they struggle to gather their thoughts, you shoot them that dazzling smile once more and return to your moped without another word. In the rain, the two men stand. Water catches and beads in Gladio’s facial hair until he uncomfortably rubs his chin. It’s only when Ignis’ ‘do starts to sag that the silence between them is broken.

“The hell was that?” Gladio wonders, staring at you as you adjust your helmet and buckle the chinstrap. He thought for sure that you’d call him a “fucking fuck” for laughing when you were so obviously freaked out. Are you seriously already over it? Oh, gods, was there even anything to get over? Has he become as much of an over-thinker as Noct and Prom when it comes to the mage’s feelings? Yup.

Iggy shakes his head and sighs, “Honestly? I haven’t the faintest idea.”


	23. 10. Yearnings (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in which I let tumblr readers name some chocobos. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Second Hand Shame, Mage Weirdness, Just Magey Things, Bad Foreshadowing, Bad Writing, Bad Everything, Noct’s a Good Friend, Noct the Secret Keeper, Intense Tense Flippage, OOC Galore, Innuendo, Sexual Tension, Mild Ogling, Hella Weird Pacing, Not All Chocobos Are Nice, Embarrassment is Your Kryptonite, Gladio Knows This, He’s also Head of the Mage Rescue Patrol, Doesn’t Stop Him from Trying to Kill You with Shame

**10\. Yearnings**

**Noctis**

You’re headed through Duscae on the way to Lestallum to meet up with Gladiolus’ sister, Iris, to set up a battle plan or... _something_. Something concerning Noctis, the Empire, and the usual suspects. You aren’t too sure, to be honest. You’ve been having these really bizarre, hyperrealistic dreams that you ponder during the day like you’re Florus the Seer, distracting you.  “ _Sometimes I drink like ol’ Florus,_ ” you muse, wiping a splattered insect from your visor with your gloved finger. “ _Dreaming of incoherently whispering toads and shriveled flowers_.” 

Though you’re excited about the prospect of meeting another Amicitia and to actually be in a _real_ city, there’s a shadow looming over you- literally and metaphorically. Trying to ignore the way the Spire pierces the warm orange skyline like a serrated dagger proves next to impossible. That is until you get a text from the contact labeled “Petty Prince:” “ _Pull over. Got a question._ ” The prince looks back at you, a flash of blue, just to make sure you got the text. With pursed lips, you nod and wonder if he’s _trying_ to get you lambasted. 

Many times you’ve had to deal with the older guys who act like you’re ten years their junior rather than two or three, scolding you about texting and driving. “Iggy already flattened you. Wasn’t that enough?” Gladio had griped, holding your phone over your head after you’d spent a good part of the drive to Galdin trying to out-meme Noct via group text with Prom. You only got found out because Prom started laughing at a photoshopped picture of a dog. 

Pulling your helmet off and your cardigan close, you hop off of Choco Jr. once you’ve parked your moped behind the Regalia. Having been around these guys for a while, you can read them fairly easily enough to know that you’re walking into the middle of an argument that had been taking place in the car. “Am I playing mediator?” You sigh, kicking at a puddle and immediately apologizing right after when Noct winces. “Whoops! Well, that’s why you should wear real pants, CapriSun.” 

“They _aren’t_ capris.”  


“Noctis’ terrible fashion choices aside, we’ve arrived at an impasse, (y/n), and we were hoping  you could settle the matter.”  


Furrowing your brow at Iggy, you probe, “So... Is this a _huge_ issue, or...?” 

“Nah.” An arm is thrown around your shoulders and Prompto pokes your cheek, ignoring how you bat his hand away like an irritable cat. “We’re just trying to figure out where to spend the night. Just say: _Wiz’s Chocobo Post_ and we can all carry on.” 

“Or,” Gladio pipes up, “you can say-”  


“We aren’t camping,” you interrupt and the Shield frowns at you. 

Before Gladio can lecture you about the alleged benefits of roughing it in the wilderness for the millionth time, Ignis informs, “Our only other option is the Spire.” 

And like that, you remember that these people don’t know that the Spire is the ally of whoever rules the lands- like a parasite moving into the body of the predator that ate its host. Years of being part of that parasite gives you an advantage, however. Because you don’t show your surprise or your dread. You merely look bored. Speech slows almost imperceptibly, a trick you’d learned to buy yourself time to be a sneak. “Although there are guest accommodations at the Spire, there was a bad storm a while ago and it’s been under construction ever since. Outsiders, even royalty, aren’t allowed inside the college without an appointment.” 

Wow. The way Ignis stares at you nearly makes your skin peel. He can detect a hint of deception in your face, it flashes like lightning in your eyes. The bespectacled man wonders why you don’t want to go to the Spire. Is it the memories? Just the other day you asked him to remove the patch from your cardigan... He opens his mouth and Noctis speaks.  “Yeah,” the prince gives you a knowing look even though he only knows what _you_ want him to know, that you’d been ousted, “and, no offense or anything, but I’ve heard weird stories about the Spire. Not exactly somewhere I’d want to sleep.” 

Though he’s giving you an obvious out, your curious nature has you questioning, “What did you hear?” 

Noct looks irritated that you aren’t accepting the free pass so easily. He’s trying to spare your ego, dammit! Do you _want_ everyone to find out that you got kicked out of the Spire? Honestly, he’s been patiently waiting for you to break the news because he doesn’t feel like it’s his place to say: “By the way, (y/n) lost their family legacy to an old man. What’re we having for dinner, Specs?” But he relents. With an indifferent shrug, Noct sighs, “Just that some magister disappeared over ten years ago and was never found.” 

“What?” You and Prompto ask at the same time. He gasps. You laugh. But the laugh is strained. A strange feeling overcomes you, like when you enter a room to retrieve something but forget what it was. Was it important? You can’t even remember that much. 

“It was a pretty big deal but mostly a secret. I accidentally overheard my dad talking about it when I was a kid.” 

“Yeah, I think I heard that rumor, too.” Gladio nods to himself. “Turned into some huge security issue until the Arch-Mage said they had it covered on the Spire’s end. I think they found out that he’d ran off. Couldn’t take the pressure of the job or somethin’ like that. Left a note and everything.” 

“ _Why don’t I remember anything like that?_ ” 

You find yourself asking, “What was his name?” Noct and Gladio shrug. A weird laugh leaves you. It sounds hollow, bitter. “Fat lot of help you two are. Anyway, let’s go. We’re burning daylight.” 

Prompto’s arm is shrugged off along with the conversation and you’re all headed down the road to Wiz’s. The whole drive, you brood. Not about the rumor, though. That’s shoved away. You brood about the towering building at your back. For some reason, you feel like you need to apologize for not trusting anyone with the truth. It’s a little strange because you also feel as though your bases are covered because _at least Noctis_ is aware of the Spire’s betrayal of the Iovitas (namely you, the lone Iovita) and he unquestioningly sided with you and seemed to turn his back on the old college. 

At the time, it was good enough for you in that diner, belly full of whiskey and flavorless poison. But telling him _directly_ that the ancient college is allied with the Empire? That’s one thing you’re struggling to spit out. Because that stings a bit more than poison in your gut. Because that _looks bad_. Eyes roll when you think of it that way. However, if there’s one thing you know to be true as a Spire-trained mage, it’s the value of appearances. The institution that raised you, the institution that trained you, the institution that _you represent_...? That institution is in the Empire’s pocket. And so you wonder what that would look like to someone who hasn’t known you for very long. (y/n) Iovita, the poster child of the Spire of Duscae. (y/n) Iovita, the erudite mage of the Spire. The Spire that is now allied with the Empire. 

“ _The guys know that the Spire doesn’t represent me,_ ” you try to reassure yourself. Well, the time for brooding is over and the time for being pissed begins. Dirt roads aren’t the best after a hard rain and you re-learn this fact by way of muddy pants and dirty boots. The whole time you drive down the road to the post, Noct turns around in his seat, rests his chin on his forearm, and watches you get splattered, a small smile on his face. 

“You’re an evil little gremlin,” you growl at him once you’re all outside the caravan. The others are placing a food order and gathering information about the area. What adds to your sour mood is that you aren’t there to hear about what interesting things are growing around or treasure spots. 

The prince shrugs, his favorite gesture. “I’m not the one who told you to buy a dorky old scooter.” 

“It was a gift!” He doesn’t respond. Instead, he watches you wipe your pants off and clean your boots. This grows old. _Fast_. Scrubbing the heel of your left boot, you snap, “It wouldn’t kill you to help.” In truth, you aren’t expecting him to help. You were just saying something to say something. But the rag is pulled out of your hand and Noct is forcing you to sit on a plastic chair- the chair you’d _just_ had your muddy foot on. Before he can start wiping mud off of you, you’re standing back up and scowling down at where he kneels at your feet. 

“What?”  


Lips twitch. “That’s the last time I ask for your help. You just sat me down in mud.” 

For a split second Noct looks like he’s going to laugh but he reels it in, makes that face of his all stoic, makes those eyes simmer. “I could clean it off of you.” 

You stare at him. He’s not smiling. He just watches you from beneath those dark bangs until you find it in yourself to stop internally screaming and drawl, “The prince likes to play grab-ass? That’s real cute... but maybe another time. Preferably when we’re behind closed doors.” 

Then he flushes, his bluff called. “I wasn’t-”  


“Food!” And he’s saved by Prompto. You’re _both_ saved by Prompto. Though you hadn’t meant  to cause any sort of tension between yourself and the prince with your comment... It still happens. And everyone notices it. Noct can’t find it in himself to look you in the eye and you’re pretending like nothing happened. You’re both painfully obvious and it should be illegal to be so damn awkward. 

That night, you all try to figure out the sleeping situation since the camper is on the small side. After a few minutes of Prompto and Noct bickering over the bed since neither of them wants to sleep on the bench in the kitchenette, you decide to take yourself out of the running for the bed. “It’s no big deal. I need to pull an all-nighter, anyway.” 

Noct scowls. “Where will you sleep?” 

“I just said: All-nighter. I’m gonna be out under the stars, ruining my eyesight by staring at small print.” 

“No!” All eyes are on Prompto and his dramatic declaration. Cheeks turn red, nearly washing out his freckles. “Um... You and Noct can share the bed. It’s a decent size and...” He turns his blue eyes on the others, begging them to support his ridiculous suggestion. Ignis looks positively unamused. Funny, it’s like looking in a mirror for you since you share the exact same expression. Gladio, on the other hand... 

The Shield nods his head sagely. “Sounds like a plan. We gotta have our Battle Mage in top form for the hunt tomorrow, anyway.”  Oh, right. The hunt for a behemoth. You’re still bitter that you can’t rent a chocobo unless the predator situation gets handled. You’d read about chocobos from Drusa’s book and were actually really looking forward to riding one until you found out you needed to bump off “Deadeye” first. What a con. 

“No arguments here,” you sigh, already feeling tired. It’s when you head into the bedroom that the silent drama commences. Noct widens his eyes threateningly at Prompto who bites his lip and shrugs. Gladio watches on with a grin while Iggy shakes his head at the blond. 

There’s no time for awkwardness. No time for blushing and being coy, for trying to figure out who will take what side of the bed, no “promise not to look” moments for changing. Noct has that little fantasy in his head. He’s a little ashamed by the fact that he’s totally ready for it... And you’re facedown on the bed, fully clothed, and asleep by the time he gets into the room. It didn’t even take him _a minute_ to follow you! Noct sighs. 

Like you, it doesn’t take him long to fall asleep. Unlike you, he’s a heavy sleeper. Except for tonight. He awakes to the sound of crying. It’s ugly, that noise. Full of phlegm and spittle, choking and hacking. He thinks it’s you until he hears you mumble over the awful sound, “Don’t cry.” Someone is sitting at the foot of the bed. He feels the dip, hears old springs creak, senses an old body sag. Normally, he would be startled. If this was the first time, he might pull the covers up over his face like a child. But this is neither normal nor the prince’s first encounter with the nighttime visitor. _Your_ nighttime visitor. 

Noctis became aware of the visitor the night you barely escaped death’s clutches. A dark figure had shuffled through the caravan at Hammerhead, had stopped next to Gladiolus, who rested at the table in the kitchenette across from Ignis and Noct, and whispered, breathless, ragged, “ _Blessed be... the Shield... of the King._ ” 

Noct couldn’t tell if it was a dream or not. The intruder didn’t move soundlessly at all- its breathing alone more than enough to wake the others. Yet no one was roused in a room of light sleepers. He had watched, wide-eyed, as the creature had kissed Gladio’s temple with a near lipless mouth- teeth stark and shiny against the Shield’s scar. Then, aware that it had an audience, it turned its head toward Noct. And he was not afraid. Yellow glimmered like embers in the  darkness; sunken into that wretched skull. Yet... Still, no fear. 

Any fear the prince had was swallowed up by that gaze. Curiosity won out that night, because Noct couldn’t determine if the creature was a daemon or not, even with its awful appearance. And as it raised one blackened finger up to its nonexistent lips, signaling for quiet, he remembered your talk earlier that night. “Higher daemons.” That’s what you’d said. Spire mages bargained with higher daemons for their magic. And you had confessed to performing necromancy... The guilt on your face, the flash of fear and dread. Just like that, he knew what you’d done; why you’d stared so blankly into the lamp on the table. Why you shut down. 

Noct had killed many daemons by that point- the result of poor planning and running out of gas at inconvenient times. So, what was a higher daemon to him? Especially when he had all four of you in the caravan with him? Despite the daemon’s signal for quiet, Noct had asked, “What do you want?” Yellow eyes remained unblinking. Then Noct realized the eyelids had been burned and warped away. Just like the lips, nose, and ears. Though it was difficult to see clearly in the dimness of the caravan, it wasn’t hard to see _that_. 

At the sound of Noct’s voice, the creature stepped back and bent at the waist, eyes kept down in deference. That’s when Noct noticed the tatters it wore- ancient in design, the remains of a robe. “ _Your... Majesty..._ ” It waited for his reaction, stayed bowed low, exposing its spinal column to him. _That_ threw Noctis. Though you’d said “higher daemon” he hadn’t expected the damn thing to recognize his title or anything like that. Eyes fell on you through the doorway to the bedroom, as if he meant to go to you and seek your counsel, and his blood ran cold. You sat up in bed as if in a trance, eyes unblinking, face impassive. 

“(y/n)?” 

It was as if saying your name had released the daemon from whatever duty it thought it owed the royal. The creature righted itself and turned to where you sat on the single bed, Prompto curled beside you (the three men had agreed that the drunks should get the bed). The door to the room was open and Noct watched on as the creature slowly made its way over. He stood and followed. Tentatively, with a care so great that it startled Noct, the daemon kneeled beside the bed and reached up to take your face in its gnarled hands. Still, you remained impassive and unmoving. Even as the daemon sobbed, ugly and full of phlegm against your neck, you didn’t flinch. It was saying something. Apologies and a name. 

“ _Decima!_ ” It wailed. 

Silent tears fell down your cheeks, fell atop that exposed skullcap and the bits of flesh that somehow remained scorched to it, plastered in a smear of red and black. Even with all of its crying, no one awoke. This had to be a dream. Or a nightmare. But as the journey became more and more perilous, the “dream” repeated. And Noctis knew this daemon was yours. Your friendly neighborhood daemon, he’d joked to himself just to ease his discomfort. Because it never did anything to hint at any ill will. But it was still an eerie thing to behold. 

It didn’t always visit. Yet when it did, Noctis always found himself roused from his sleep once it stepped foot out of the shadow and the others’ slumber seemed to grow deeper in its presence. Your nighttime visitor would always greet the royal when it knew it had been spotted but it wouldn’t entertain him beyond that. He’d ask questions but get no answer. Eventually, he resigned himself to watch as the daemon mended any bumps or bruises you’d accrued throughout the day or _days_ if it had been a long stretch of time between visits. And at the end of the visit, it would always reach for your hand before stopping itself and stepping back into the shadow. 

Despite these visits, Noct could never bring himself to confront you. The night you’d mentioned your dalliance in necromancy, he’d seen your shame. If this “helpful higher daemon” was to be  discussed, Noct knew that _you_ had to be the one to start that conversation on your own terms. You had to be the one to reveal the secret. The secret that you thought you kept close to your chest. The secret that he would keep for your sake. But _this_ visit is different. Yes, these past few visits the daemon has spoken more and more urgently like now, a dramatic shift from its patient talks that he can never hear (Why is that? He always wonders why its voice is garbled to him when it speaks directly to you...). 

However, _this_ is the first time Noctis has heard _you_ speak to the daemon. It’s also apparently the first time the daemon’s ever heard you speak to it, too, judging by the startled way that it stops its crying. There’s a whimper as the cries dwindle to rattling sniffles, a difficult thing to do without a nose. Blue eyes crack open to see the dark figure hunching over you. It rocks back and forth, a stream of whispers falling from its mouth in earnest now, struggling past whimpers and groans. One gnarled, blackened hand pushes down on the bed beside your head as it leans closer and closer to you. He sees your eyelids flutter in the pale blue of the moonlight. 

“I don’t...” your lips move almost imperceptibly, “I don’t understand you... Damn toad.” 

The daemon freezes, stops talking. It realizes that nothing it’s saying is getting through to you. Defeated, it rights itself. Noct swears he hears it sigh. Then, as it begins to back off into the shadow, it instinctively reaches for your hand as it always does. And it catches itself before it can touch you, like it always does. When it’s gone, a veil seems to lift. You awake immediately because your phone’s alarm is going off. Noct watches you glare at your phone for a moment, the artificial light harsh against your tired eyes. After a couple of seconds, you tap the screen and the annoying buzzing is put to an end. The prince makes the mistake of swallowing because your dog ears catch the sound and you’re looking at him. 

“Sorry. Did my alarm wake you up?” You whisper, conscientious of the others. 

He pauses. Should he bring up the daemon now? It’s been weeks of visits, going on over a month, and still he’s said nothing. He’s waited patiently. But tonight you spoke, responded to the daemon’s words though you heard none of them. Surely that warrants a conversation? Surely... “No. I... couldn’t sleep because of the hunt.” 

Your expression softens. “Oh. Nerves? I can show you how to make a tea for stress.” 

Noct sits up now and you follow suit. “Does it help you?” 

“Well...” you turn your eyes up to the ceiling of the caravan, “it helped before exams or big things but not so much with daily stressors. It’s not so effective with combating low-grade stress or if you’re always in an anxious state because it’s not a long-term thing. But I have all of the ingredients if you’re interested.” 

“Yeah.” 

He should’ve said no. Because that herbal tea of yours? You brew it to your taste, completely forgetting that you’ve been drinking this to combat stress for a little under a decade now and have built up a tolerance for it whereas Noct _hasn’t_. Consequently, it all but knocks the prince on his ass. He’s so mellow, with a serene smile on his face, that Prompto thinks you got him high. Noct insists that he’s fine and you have to steel yourself against the collective glare of your fellow advisors when the prince takes a sip of his orange juice... Well, he gets the cup somewhere _near_ his mouth and pours it onto his lap. Doesn’t even notice that his lap is damp and sticky. 

It’s settled that Noct will stay back at the caravan and you’re stuck looking after him. You accept your punishment without objection, wincing when you glance at Noct only to find him looking all dreamy and in La La Land, totally unaware of the conversation that’s taking place. Once the  others leave (Prom takes _so many_ pictures of Noct in this state), you try to get him to snap out of it. “C’mon,” you tempt, a can of Ebony in hand, “just a sip, Noct. Hm?” 

The woods are so green, Noct notes, looking around. He’d never seen so much green in his entire life until he left Insomnia. He’d never seen so many wonderful things until this trip started. And one of those wonderful things keeps offering him a can of Ebony like it’s a candy bar. All he can smell is the aluminum, so it’s hardly tempting. “Cut it out,” he complains, pushing the can away. You nearly spill it, leaning across the table to shake the can in his face like you’re trying to tempt a cat with treats. “If it’s so good, _you_ drink it.” 

“Actually, I’ve been stealing sips since I opened it, but that’s beside the point. We need to pep you up. Understand? You’re a little...” You trail off when you notice that he’s stopped closing his mouth. It just hangs open when he isn’t talking. 

“A little _what_?”  


You exhale loudly at his half-assed glare that only lasts a second before he gets distracted by the  color of your eyes. “Six, how did you get so messed up off of tea? You’re such a dork.” 

“Dork?” He snorts and then coughs because he snorted too hard. 

You wince and glance up toward the sky. “ _Ramuh, forgive me for drugging my prince. It was an accident!_ ” 

For a while, you just sit in silence while your prince trips out across the table from you. The sun is shining full force but your chair sinks a bit in the still-damp earth. It’s a little bit warmer out today and the chocobos are desperate for attention. Every time you look over at the penned up birds, at least two are giving you big, imploring eyes. Speaking of big eyes... “If you won’t drink Ebony-” 

“I won’t drink it ‘cause it’s Specs’ last can.” 

“Crap. Well, that ship already sailed. Anyway, if you won’t drink Ebony, _at least_ drink a lot of water. Hm?” You make your eyes all big, lean forward in your chair and put your elbows on the table so you can cup your chin. “ _Hm_?” 

Pink blossoms across the prince’s cheeks and he hastens to offset it with a frown. Arms cross and he throws himself back in his chair, trying to look more irritated than flustered. “Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“Because I’m trying to coerce you.”  


“Thanks for being upfront about it,” laughs Noct though he still sounds a bit drowsy. 

“Shall I get you water, Your Highness?” 

Blue eyes watch you, hold your gaze. Now it’s your turn to get flustered. Pretty soon, that embarrassment turns into concern when he still hasn’t said anything. Then you realize he zoned out and you sigh before going into the caravan and getting him some water. Obviously you’re _never_ making that tea for him again. The others return victorious and Noct finally has his wits about him, so you at least don’t get any glares for drugging him. Honestly, the only one who finds any humor in the situation is Prompto and later that day he gets Iggy and Gladio to laugh about it with a picture of Noct staring at you and drooling on himself. Noct tells him to delete it before you find out. 

“You ready to ride a chocobo?” Prompto asks, tugging on your arm like an excited child. 

“Mmhm. Right after you give me my arm back.” 

It’s funny. All that waiting for a chocobo and you get the stuffiest bird imaginable. Drusa said that _all_ chocobos are friendly. What a generalization, because the one you stand before seems to glower down at you with its hellfire blue eyes. That gaze alone keeps your hands at your sides, fearing for your fingers. A glance around shows you that everyone is getting on splendidly with their chocobos. Everyone but you. You click your tongue and look up at the bird. “Lovely weather we’re having.” He blinks slowly and you smirk. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m (y/n) Iovita, arcane advisor to the future king of Lucis.” 

As you’re speaking, voice pompous, the chocobo puffs out his chest like he’s feeding off of that haughty energy. You’re grinning now. “Would you mind if I named you, dear sir?” He keeps his chest puffed out. “How about...? The Feathered Fury, Lord Apricus the Deathbringer. Your nickname will be Sunny, though. Only abide it from _me_ , since you have a title and a reputation to maintain, my handsome gentleman.” 

Apricus rewards you by letting you stroke his yellow feathers. A snort from the pen beside yours causes you to look over. Noct is smirking. “That bird’s almost as conceited as you are.” 

You brush off the insult and choose to look at his bright-eyed chocobo who eagerly accepts his awkward pats. “And what’s the name of your beautiful big chicken? Aww, what a cu- Ow! Dammit! _Ow_! Not again!” Apricus pecks you _hard-_ once for being too kind to another bird and again for swearing. 

After Noct stops laughing at your expense, he turns to look at his demure chocobo. “I dunno. I’m thinking... Nuggets.” 

“Like a golden nugget? That’s swee-” 

“Like chicken nuggets.” 

You stare. And then you grin. “That’s very macabre of you, Prince Edgelord. A wonderful dichotomy with such a sweet bird. The name is very dark, maybe a bit avant gar-” You’re cut off by another hard peck. “No, please! Don’t be jealous! Sunny, why?!”

* * *

**Prompto**

You’re headed through Duscae on the way to Lestallum to meet up with Gladiolus’ sister, Iris, to set up a battle plan or... _something_. Something concerning Noctis, the Empire, and the usual suspects. You aren’t too sure, to be honest. You’ve been having these really bizarre, hyperrealistic dreams that you ponder during the day like you’re Florus the Seer, distracting you.  “ _Sometimes I drink like ol’ Florus,_ ” you muse, wiping a splattered insect from your visor with your gloved finger. “ _Dreaming of incoherently whispering toads and shriveled flowers_.” 

Though you’re excited about the prospect of meeting another Amicitia and to actually be in a _real_ city, there’s a shadow looming over you- literally and metaphorically. Trying to ignore the way the Spire pierces the warm orange skyline like a serrated dagger proves next to impossible. That is until you get a text from the contact labeled “Chocobutt”: “ _PULL OVER!!!_ ” 

Now, under normal circumstances you wouldn’t reply to a text while driving, lest you have to deal with the collective ire of Ignis and Gladiolus who act like they’re a decade older than you with their seniority, but Prompto’s superfluous punctuation and abuse of caps for the message has you firing back: “ _It’s a cardigan, but thanks for noticing._ ” 

Ignis pulls the Regalia off to the side of the road and you follow. Helmet removed and placed on your seat, you swagger on over to the others where they exit the car and begin talking amongst themselves. You pull your sweater closer to your body in the coolness of the evening. The dusky lavender cardigan is missing its signature patch, which Ignis removed for you a few days ago at your polite behest.  Excitement radiates off of the blond who nearly yanks you toward him when you’re within reach. “Chocobos!” Prompto squeals, blue eyes shiny and wide, a goofy grin on his face. Then that exuberant expression dissolves, replaced by cool contempt and a snarky, “That joke was awful, by the way. _Awful_! You should be ashamed of yourself... I still laughed, though.” 

“Good. My primary role is comedic relief,” you snap back, leaning against the Regalia next to him. Eyes dance over the others who make no move to answer your unspoken question. Quirking a brow, you drawl, “I assume we didn’t stop so someone can go pee in the woods?” 

“Lestallum is still a ways off and nightfall is upon us. We’re trying to determine the best course of  action,” Ignis answers, pushing his glasses up the slope of his nose even though they sit perfectly on the bridge. “Our options are the Spire and a place called Wiz Chocobo Post. Now, the Spire is, by far, much closer-” 

And just like that, you remember that you never told anyone exactly what went down at the Spire. Only Noctis knows that your family was essentially usurped upon your mother’s death and even the prince doesn’t know that the ancient college is an ally to the Empire. Certainly none of them know that _you_ were offered a place in the new world order... “I’ve never seen a chocobo in person before,” you interrupt, the words nearly ripped out of you, “and the Spire doesn’t have much in the way of guest accommodations. Plus, you all would need to be cleared for entry and it’s just this long, drawn-out process.” 

It’s all a load of crap, of course. The Spire has often served as a refuge for wary travelers ever since your family took over. However, the guest accommodations aren’t located within the fenced-in portion of the grounds. Noct gives you a knowing look, blue eyes vibrant in the light of the setting sun, not realizing that he’s only privy to _half_ of the truth. “Told you it’d be good to have (y/n)’s input,” Noct says and you resist the urge to grin at the prince who is so conscientious about your feelings and privacy. Even if you’re lying to him by omission. 

“Yup! I knew you’d side with me and Noct,” Prompto laughs, throwing his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into an appreciative side-hug.  He’s been doing this more and more frequently with the hugs lasting longer and longer. Not having been subjected to physical affection in over a decade, it initially made you rather uncomfortable. The pats on the back, the high-fives, fist bumps, and all of that? You could handle that. But Prom’s burning hugs? Unintentionally, you shiver, and the blond’s grip on you tightens. 

“Yeah, great,” you stutter when you realize that Gladiolus is smirking at you, amber gaze flickering from Prompto’s hand on your upper arm and the way you instinctively lean into his lithe frame, “um... Let’s get going.” 

Pushing away from Prompto, you turn on your heel and begin to head back to Choco Jr., dead-set on getting to Wiz’s and driving away from that moment. The sound of footsteps behind you, however, gives you pause. A glance over your shoulder reveals the shutterbug following in your shadow. When he realizes he’s been caught, he blushes and grins. “I was wondering if you’d let me ride with you? You, um, kinda promised that one time when we were at Takka’s.” 

You blink. “You mean when you drank my tomato shake? Hell, you _remembered_ that?”  


Red is certainly a flattering color on him. He’s lucky, since his cheeks, ears, and neck seem to be  permanently set in a deep crimson. “Well, yeah. You promised.” 

“People make promises that they don’t intend to keep all the time, Prompto.” 

Ah. _There’s_ that Iovita coldness in full-force. You almost forgot that you’re damn near part naga. But at Prompto’s dejected expression, pale lashes fluttering across freckles as he looks down, you swipe up your helmet and throw it at him. He catches it instantly and nearly drops it. “Whoa!” 

“Put that on. We already know that I’m tough to kill on the road and I don’t need you cracking your coconut on my watch.” 

He laughs, blue eyes turning into crescents, “Really? Thanks!” 

Maybe he didn’t really think about what he was asking for when he requested a ride with you. Or maybe, when he had asked for a ride what seems like a lifetime ago, his painfully obvious crush  on you hadn’t even formed yet. Either way, Prompto Argentum is a little jittery when he puts the helmet on his head, only mourning for his hair for a second. Because after that second, his eyes land on your butt that’s sat on the moped’s seat and he’s regretting this decision. 

Cornflower blue eyes waver over your rear, trailing down your thigh, your calf, where you put your weight onto one booted foot to pull yourself to the edge of the seat so he’ll have room. The way the black material bunches at the seam of your hip and upper thigh draws his gaze. He has _no_ idea that the guys have watched him blatantly ogle you this _entire time_. Noct nearly throws himself into the Regalia’s backseat and hisses to Ignis, “Let’s _go_.” 

Part of Prom curses Gladio for convincing you to buy leather pants. Another part of him, the part that rears its perverted little head when he walks behind you and you _aren’t_ wearing your jacket, wants to buy the Shield all of the cup noodles in the world. But right now? When he’s going to be sitting behind you, body flush against your back?  “C-Can I drive?”  


Head swivels around so you can pin the blond with an aghast expression. “Certainly not!” 

Cheeks are a lovely scarlet. His voice is impossibly high, “But I-!” 

“Either get on or walk. The others already drove off, Prompto. We don’t have time for this.” And you really, really don’t. It’s getting darker by the second. Skin prickles, eyes dart around anxiously as Prompto continues to argue his case for a few minutes, oblivious to everything but the tightness in his pants and how he _doesn’t_ want you knowing about it. He says something about being a really good driver, road laws, and traumatizing milkshakes. You aren’t too sure because you cut him off by yelling, “Would you shut up and get on already?!” 

Big blue eyes blink at you from behind the helmet’s visor. Feel that? That’s instant regret. Face in your hands, you groan and make to apologize when the earth shifts. About fifty yards behind you, a giant hand bursts forth from the ground, fingers splayed out, before crashing down into the pavement. The earth moves, crumbles, groans, when the Iron Giant wrenches itself up into the cool night air. You sigh, long and low- so long that Prompto thinks your soul is leaving your body. On that long exhale, you hiss out from between your teeth, “I fucking _hate_ this place.” 

It would honestly figure that this would happen to the two lightweights of the group. A few things go through your mind as you grimace at the Iron Giant in your side mirror. Contemplation of death, of course- you’re almost oddly indifferent to it at this point. But then you think about the bubbly shutterbug and pinch the bridge of your nose.  “ _Can’t very well let_ him _die, now can I?_ ”  


Slender arms tighten around your abdomen and hot breath fills your ear as Prom basically yells,  “Drive!” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” you growl before spinning the tires and making a U-turn. Impossibly, Prompto’s grip on you tightens when you come to a halt, facing the Iron Giant that lumbers around the road. It’s not quite interested in pulverizing you two yet. You thank the streetlight for that small mercy. 

“What are you doing?!” Prom shrieks frantically, knees pressing so hard against your thighs that he almost clamps them together. Well, _that’s_ going to bruise. “That Wiz place is the _other_ way!” 

“I _know_ that, Prompto. I’ve glanced at a map of this area, unlike you.” As casual as can be (hell, you _have_ to be casual with Prompto freaking out and trying to fuse into  your back), you whip out your phone. Ignis _had_ to be right when he said Wiz’s is further than the damn Spire, didn’t he? And you knew he was right. There were many times that you’d stared at the map of your homeland, wishing you could go to one of the places marked on it... It’s all nearly burned into your memory. If you head to the outpost, you’ll surely run into something much worse than an Iron Giant on the way there. 

Though you haven’t heard from her since you left the college, you call Drusa and pray that she picks up so you aren’t running blind. Mercifully, she does.  “(y/n)! Oh, thank the Astrals above! _How_ are you? _Where_ are you? What have-” The magister sounds keyed up, not having heard from you in ages. 

“Drusa, I’d love to play catch-up, really, but I need to know if the Spire’s visitor outpost is being used.” 

“The vis-? No. You know we haven’t had visitors there in such a long time. The guards haven’t even patrolled it for the past five or so years.” 

Relief floods your system, even with the Iron Giant turning to watch you and the blond on the small scooter. It’s contemplating coming over. Bloodlust is a hard thing to ignore. Your throat tightens, you wheeze out, “Good! I have to use it.” 

“Okay. I’ll... I’ll keep an ear out just in case someone decides to go there. Which, of course, is highly doubtful.” Then the woman’s voice takes on a sharp, maternal edge and she commands, “ _Please_ be safe. It’s dark out.” 

Lips twitch into a smile at that. You’ve missed her. “I know. I’m on the road.” 

“What?!”  


You cringe at that pitch and hastily say, “I’ll text you when I get there. Bye!” 

While you were talking, you got a text from Noctis. In their haste to give you two some room, the others made it all the way to Wiz’s before they realized that you weren’t behind them. Now they’re worried. With a tortured sigh, you text the prince your plans, pocket your phone, and speed off toward the daemon. Prompto, who began to calm down at the sound of your even voice when you were speaking, eyelids fluttering at the feeling of your modulated tone reverberating through your back and into his chest, starts shouting obscenities the moment you lurch forward in the direction of the heavily armored daemon. 

You swerve around the Iron Giant as it lifts its weapon, Prompto screaming bloody murder into the side of your neck the entire time. Jaw sets funny the moment you feel teeth and tongue on your skin. Resisting the urge to yelp out is almost impossible. Luckily for you, this little slip gets Prompto to shut up and basically start choking to death on his own tongue and flustered apologies. The short drive to the Spire is completed in dead, awkward silence. It’s an effort to ignore the way Prom’s saliva cools on your neck but you don’t wipe it away for fear of embarrassing him further. As it stands, he’s trying to distance himself from you on the limited available space of the moped’s seat. Eyes roll at that. 

Prompto cranes his neck to gawk up at the towering Spire, which you two drive toward silently. He’s in awe, breathless. But a small, strange feeling prods him in the gut. In pictures, the Spire looked so majestic. It still does but there’s an air of dread, of loneliness about the grounds. It takes him a moment to realize that feeling is coming from you. 

Muscles tense the moment you get on the grounds. A bend in the paved main road leads you  down a dirt path before you’re anywhere near the college’s imposing, guarded gates. Lush trees provide ample cover and the path ends at a small stone house with a thatched roof and tiny windows. You stash the moped behind some brush, Prom helping you cover the vibrant yellow vehicle with undergrowth. Once this is done, you both head over to the house that used to be where the groundskeeper lived back before your family took over and moved the poor soul into the much roomier and fancier Spire. 

The lock is child’s play (Prompto asks if you _always_ have lock picks on hand... you don’t answer, especially when he presses further and asks who bought you a lock picking set) and you usher him into the darkness of the house without another word. These are blessed grounds with no threat of daemons attacking... But based on _your_ past experience, you don’t know how effective those wards are at keeping daemons at bay. This has your heart quickening and you rattle out, locking the door, “When we turn on the lights, the guards might come and check it out. If that happens, I’m going to need you to tell them that you’re the only person here.” 

“This place has lights?” 

To make a point, you flip the light-switch by the door and round on the blond who is temporarily blinded. The house is one room housing dust and possibly mold spores. A kitchenette occupies the far wall with a tiny relic of a TV, there’s an alcove with a toilet, and the stone floors are covered with threadbare rugs. “Does everyone think this place is _that_ antiquated? Every building owned by the college has electricity. We even have wi-fi.” 

“ _Can’t say ‘we’ anymore. Remember?_ ” You remind yourself darkly, the Spire’s betrayal always renewed like a wound that you keep picking the scab off of. 

“All right, all right. Sorry,” Prompto mumbles, hands trying to rub warmth into his bare arms. That gesture has your own skin prickling with goosebumps. Making your way to the fireplace, you set fire to the dried out wood. It’s... a little strange that there’s wood in there, actually. With this in mind, you text Drusa to say you’re in the old house and wait for her confirmation that you’re in the clear. Her response is immediate with a bunch of thumbs up emojis. 

“ _I swear this woman texts like a teenager._ ” 

Now that that’s all settled and you can wind down for a moment, you realize that it’s surprisingly _quiet_ in the house. Sure, it’s abandoned, but you’re pretty sure you entered this house with a loud- mouth blond chatterbox. Said chatterbox is still standing by the weathered door, cheeks a demure pink and gaze looking anywhere but at you. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, body coiled with an almost palpable tension. Something’s wrong. Dread leadens your gut.  Brow furrows and you ask, voice low and cautious, “What’s wrong?” 

“There’s... just one bed,” Prompto points out bashfully and it takes all of your self-control not to slap your forehead. 

Hand gestures about the spartan room as you state, emphasizing your words each time you point, “Yeah. _And_ a couch _and_ a table. Are we going to list _all_ of the furniture?” 

He’s blushing so vividly and you’re just trying to make this _not_ awkward. ‘Cause you’re not nearly naïve enough to not know what he’s implying and to not, deep down, wish there _wasn’t_ a damn couch in this little hovel of a house. You sigh, mostly at yourself, and say, “I’m taking the couch, weirdo.” 

The blond jumps like you just prodded his side with a stun rod. “What?! _Weirdo_? I wasn’t being weird!” 

“Yeah. Sure.” 

After finding the linen closet, you open it and dust out a comforter and a few blankets. Much to your surprise they aren’t moth-eaten and only smell _mildly_ musty. Keeping the floral comforter for yourself, you toss Prom the blankets and sit on the rickety burnt-orange couch. He’s in the middle of thanking you when you peer at him from beneath your lashes. In truth, there’s no secret meaning behind your look- you’re _just_ looking. However, Prom finds it necessary to repeat, “I-I wasn’t being weird...” The blankets are held close to his chest. Even his shoulders are bright pink now. 

Lips quirk on instinct. Screwing with him always eases some of your tension. “Which is why you felt the need to point out the single bed even though there’s a perfectly good couch in here. Right?” He makes a pained sort of whine in the back of his throat and you laugh. “Good night, Prompto.” 

Almost the second you curl up under the comforter on the couch, you’re dead asleep, head resting on your forearm. Blue eyes watch you for a moment. Prom has noticed that when once you never slept, in the throes of some manic research spree, now you sleep like a rock. At first he was relieved. But now...? Sleeping next to you in the tent, he always gets a bizarre feeling. Like he’s being watched. While you sleep soundly that night, your blond roommate doesn’t get a wink of sleep.  It’s not because of any sexual tension, though there _is_ that aspect. However, it takes a backseat to paranoia. Because while you sleep, the blond thinks he hears footsteps in the room pacing from the couch to the door. And at one point, when he’s just about to drift away, Prompto hears someone whisper and he swears you whisper back. 

The next morning at 4:00 a.m., you’re dragging Prompto out of bed and you’re out of the house before daybreak. A helmeted head keeps bumping into the back of yours the whole drive to Wiz’s Chocobo Post and you pray to Ramuh that the blond doesn’t slump off of the scooter or Noct will probably kill you. “If you stay awake, you get to ride a chocobo,” you bait. To your relief, the blond zombie straightens up, mumbles something incoherent, and stops slumping against you. Just in time, it would seem, because everyone is anxiously waiting outside a camper for you two. 

“There you two are!” Noct sighs in relief, having worried the night away over his two friends. Dark eyebrows furrow quizzically as he takes in the state of his blond best friend. “Whoa. What happened to you?” 

“Didn’t get much sleep, eh?” Gladio ribs suggestively and you give a loud, obviously fake laugh to get him to shut up. 

Your loud, obviously fake laugh startles Prompto into awareness and he looks around wildly. Blue eyes widen and widen as he takes in the penned-in chocobos and the vibrant yellow aesthetic. He flounders, “W-Wait. When did we get here?” 

“Prompto, drink some coffee. We have a job to do.” Ignis turns his serious emerald gaze onto you and brings you up to speed. And the quest for chocobos is what leads you all to hunt a behemoth by the name of Deadeye. When you first heard the name, you’d laughed, thinking it was a joke. Nope. Iggy was dead serious. And once the bespectacled man was certain you and Prompto had eaten breakfast, you all set off to hunt the beast. 

“Can’t we, just _once_ , try and tame one of these absurdly large creatures?” You hiss as you pursue the gargantuan monster. “Why do we have to fight things that can actually swallow us whole? That’s not my particular kink, to be quite honest.” 

“Yea- Wait.” Prompto turns to look at you, starry-eyed and curious. “Can you tame this thing?” 

A laugh is suppressed and you breathe softly, crouched low to the ground, fingertips pressed into the damp earth, gaze trained, unblinking, on the massive, hulking beast that lumbers through the misty clearing. Lips tug up into a smug smirk and you drawl, eyes hooded, “I’m a mage, not a beastmaster.” 

_Click!_

Blinking in surprise your gaze alights onto a blushing Prom. He lowers the camera. Lips move for a few seconds before he finally stammers out, “Y-You looked cool posing like that...” 

“I wasn’t _posing_!”  


When he realizes that you’re flustered, the shutterbug teases, “I think I’ll call this picture: The  Beastmaster.”  


“Six, I’m _not_ a beastmaster!” 

That point is certainly made when you have to encase yourself in a small dome of thick ice to keep Deadeye from pouncing on you and potentially killing you a thousand times over. Would a beastmaster have to worry about being singled out by an asshole behemoth? Short answer: No. This ice-dome position is what you have to maintain for pretty much the entirety of the battle since the behemoth apparently is (or _was_ , since he’s dead now) prejudice against mages. He only had eyes- er, _eye_ for you. Lucky, lucky you. And lucky, lucky you now has a new nickname thanks to Gladiolus who churns out nicknames like it’s a favorite hobby of his: The Monster Bait Mage. Always has to tack on “mage” to the end of every nickname, too, obviously. How else would anyone know that ridiculous name belonged to you? 

“ _At least we get to rent chocobos now..._ ” You think to yourself, feeling a bit ragged after that excursion. It’s not like maintaining spells for long periods of time drains you, but rather that maintaining spells and _fearing for your damn life_ takes a toll. A few times, when Deadeye pounced and put his entire bodyweight onto your little dome like a cat attacking his owner’s feet under a blanket, you feared it might shatter. 

“Enjoying the chocobos?” Ignis queries when one of the stablehands brings you a particularly _angry_ looking chocobo. 

Exhausted, you face-plant into its feathery chest without a second thought. You think you hear the stablehand give an uneasy warning (“He’s a little... _temperamental_ but all the other ones are rented out. Good luck!”) as they back off from you and the giant bird. The chocobo tenses beneath you and for a second you think you just did something incredibly stupid (especially when you recall the devilish gleam in his blue eyes as he was being tugged over) but then he relaxes and nudges your head with his beak. Arms encircle his neck and you sigh in contentment. Drusa always told you chocobos were calming. 

“I always wanted a chocobo friend,” you murmur into bright yellow feathers. 

“I think they _are_ enjoying this,” Noct chuckles, patting his own chipper bird. 

“Hey everyone! Meet Chocolate Chocopuffs!” Prompto crows. You turn your head to watch as he waits for a reaction. When he gets none, he goes on, slower, “ _Y’know_? Like Chocolate Cocoa Puffs?” He huffs, “Screw you guys, it’s funny! C’mon Chocopuff, let’s get you some decorative medals.” His phlegmatic chocobo follows at a lackadaisical pace, occasionally pecking at his fluffy hair. Prompto’s declaration of his chocobo’s name gives you pause. Should you name your  chocobo? Pushing away from the large bird, you squint up at him. You _swear_ he squints back at you. A grin crosses your face. 

"You’ll be called The Feathered Fury, Lord Apricus the Deathbringer from now on. Or Sunny, for short. But only abide that nickname from _me_. Everyone else has to use your _proper_ title," you coo, stroking the haughty bird’s bright yellow feathers. Apricus preens when you say this. Though you’re pretty positive he doesn’t understand, he seems to appreciate the regal and authoritative tone that the name evokes. Or maybe chocobos are actually _that_ intelligent? You aren’t too sure. What you are sure of is that your new avian friend likes the name and you’re satisfied with that much. 

Upon hearing you speak so reverently to the bird and give him such a lofty name when he comes back (Chocopuff is now decked out in all manner of medals and little pins on her belt), Prompto sighs softly to himself and leans against Chocopuff, "Oh, (y/n), this is why I love ya..." 

You whip around to look at him, eyes wide. " _What_?" 

"What?" Now sweating bullets, Prompto curses himself and curses _you_. How the _hell_ is your hearing that good? Little does he know that you have dog ears for the sole purpose of collecting Spire gossip like a little gremlin, waiting in the shadows, rubbing your hands together. Not really, of course, but acute hearing meant less of a chance of nasty surprises... Like getting jumped by classmates. 

You side-eye the blushing blond a moment longer and then turn to address the others. " _Anyway_... This was fun and all, but let’s head off to Lestallum. We shouldn’t make Iris wait any longer." 

“Got that right,” Gladio grunts, expression appreciative. 

Dejected at the short-lived friendship, Prompto pats his chocobo and sniffs, “All right, all right. We’ll call you guys later. C’mon, Chocopuff, time to go back to the stalls. C’mon Sunny.” 

What happens next tears you in half. You don’t know if you should laugh (and you _really_ want to... especially when Gladio almost pisses himself) or if you should be concerned. But upon hearing “Sunny” leave Prom’s lips, Apricus immediately squawks angrily, flaps his wings, and straight-up bodies the blond right into the water trough. Chocopuff looks on in mild interest at the stunned, waterlogged blond before curiously pecking at his limp hair.  Hands cover your mouth. “Oh, shit...”

* * *

**Ignis**

You’re headed through Duscae on the way to Lestallum to meet up with Gladiolus’ sister, Iris, to set up a battle plan or... _something_. Something concerning Noctis, the Empire, and the usual suspects. You aren’t too sure, to be honest. You’ve been having these really bizarre, hyperrealistic dreams that you ponder during the day like you’re Florus the Seer, distracting you.  “ _Sometimes I drink like ol’ Florus,_ ” you muse, wiping a splattered insect from your visor with your gloved finger. “ _Dreaming of incoherently whispering toads and shriveled flowers_.” 

Though you’re excited about the prospect of meeting another Amicitia and to actually be in a _real_ city, there’s a shadow looming over you- literally and metaphorically. Trying to ignore the way the Spire pierces the warm orange skyline like a serrated dagger proves next to impossible. That is until you see the Regalia pull off to the side of the road, emerald eyes fixated on you in the rearview mirror. You’re quick to follow suit, gliding off to the shoulder while Noct and Prompto hop out of the car and wait. The prince looks expectant, a bit of an edge to his posture. 

“ _Oh, wonderful,_ ” you think blandly, mood already souring when you see that Iggy’s in his confrontational stance, the one where his hands are on his hips and his weight is shifted to his right leg. You and Prom have had _words_ about that stance. 

“You think Iggy’ll get mad at me for buying this?” Asked Prompto after purchasing an obscenely large bag of gummy bears when you all had stopped to gas up. You two had eagerly stretched your legs in the convenience store which had a motley of strange candies and food. One such item Prom couldn’t pass up: Five pounds of gummy bears for _1,500 gil_. Gladio had warned Prom about being a spendthrift but you’d made _eyes_ and the shutterbug _had_ to buy them. 

“I know _I’m_ not mad at you,” you’d replied, voice muffled from way too many gummies in your mouth, “so I don’t care.” 

Prompto had grinned at you for a split-second before the grin fell right off of his face. “Oh, no. Ignis is looking over- _he just put his hands on his hips!_ Help me, (y/n)!” 

You’d shoved one more handful of gummies into your mouth and mumbled, “Nice knowin’ ya,” before leaving. Needless to say, you’re not exactly _thrilled_ that Iggy is ready for battle before you’ve even hopped off of your moped and pulled off your helmet. But with years of experience putting on faces under your belt, you don a serene, unassuming smile and saunter on up to the group. The air is cool, prompting you to pull your sweater close. Water splashes beneath your heel, pooled in the divots of the road from the brief shower you’d all waited out in the warmth of the Crow’s Nest. You can still taste the bitter coffee on your lips and the others still smell like grease. 

“Is there a problem?” A bit of steam billows from your lips, barely visible in the warm light of the setting sun. 

“Yeah,” drawls Noct, cutting his blue eyes to his childhood friend before hitting you with a meaningful look, “Specs wants us to stay at the Spire for the night but Prom and I wanna go to Wiz’s Chocobo Post, and Gladio _wanted_ to camp-” 

Eyeing the Shield up and down, you point out, “Are you out of your mind? It _just_ rained.” 

“That’s what I said,” Noct agrees, shaking his head at the huffy bodyguard. “Anyway, he’s siding  with Specs so you’re the tie-breaker.” 

“ _Wait. What?_ ”  Noct is making you the tie-breaker for where you’re all sleeping? No wonder Ignis was staring daggers at you- you _know_ he has an interest in the mysterious, ancient college: Where you were born and raised, where the king’s arcane advisors are trained. With veins full of ice and a mouth full of hot cotton, you beam and chuckle, “Oh. Wiz’s for sure, then.” 

“Yes!” Cheers Prompto and he moves from his position beside the prince to reward you with a tight side-hug. 

Ignis is unamused (and a bit disappointed, you note). “The Chocobo Post is out of our way. It’s a short drive to the Spire and night is upon us.” 

“We don’t really have guest accommodations at the Spire,” you lie. 

And he’s quick to catch you in the lie. “There’s guest housing on the land and surely an allied institution can spare us a room for the night.” 

“Are you _that desperate_ to go to the Spire?” 

He tries not to look offended by your accusatory tone. Those neat glasses are pushed up and along the bridge of his nose, reminding you of his dignity and the respect that’s owed him. “Perhaps I _am_ curious, but the fact remains that it’s late.” 

The dense forest that surrounds the road is eerily quiet save for the sound of dripping water. The trees are close together, making them look impossibly dark and intimidating. This atmosphere of surreal dread gives you an idea. “Tell you what: I’ll satiate your curiosity and you can use your imagination for the rest.” 

Everyone but Ignis looks intrigued. Prompto, in particular, looks enthused. With a squeeze of your shoulders he insists, “Ooh! Yeah! Tell us about the Spire, (y/n).” 

You speak softly, talk with your hands. “Imagine a crypt but with fifteen floors. The stone goes up, and up, and up. There’s a staircase, a singular staircase, to reach each floor. And each floor looks identical unless you walk down the long corridors and open the heavy wooden doors. Most of the rooms will be empty but noises don’t echo; they get swallowed up by the walls. You’ll find bookcases, chairs, and tables. But you’ll never find people. Like rodents they scurry away at the slightest noise, shy away from light in the ever-present darkness they’ve grown accustomed to in the crypt. Now, that crypt has a ‘basement’ with a floor hidden beneath it. On your hands and knees you’ll have to creep, groping for the divot in the ground, for the hatch. 

"Below, there aren’t the usual crates, or barrels, or other things one finds in a basement. But there are cages. And there are chains. There are rumors that there are bones in the walls. Not skeletons- _bones_. They’re old, taken from people who died outside of the Spire, taken from people who died inside but the rest was cast out in the sun to bloat and rot, to divert attention. There are rumors that this is why it’s difficult to sleep. It’s not the cold stone that won’t trap heat, that lets the wind whistle. It’s not the electricity that flickers eerily in the night, shuts off entirely only when one is alone. It’s not the secret passages that run through the building, the origin of which are unknown. No, it’s the bones in the walls and the voices from below.” 

Prompto looks as white as a sheet. He’s long since released you from his grasp to hold onto himself against the cool air. “Okay. We are _not_ sleeping at the Spire!” 

“Yeah. Hell no,” agrees Noct, though he does his best to hide the pallor of his skin. 

Ignis looks to Gladio for support but the bodyguard fights off a shiver at that exact moment and then mumbles, blaming it on the coolness of the encroaching night. Iggy sighs, “Wiz’s it is, then. Let’s carry on.” 

“ _Thank you, Ramuh. Thanks for making me a sneaky bastard._ ” 

“All right,” you concede coolly, expression smug, and turn smartly on your heel to make your way back to Choco Jr. before another word can be uttered. There’s a flash of green from up ahead and you know Ignis is throwing you a disapproving look in the rearview mirror. Well, he’s certainly grown accustomed to your propensity toward showmanship. He’s just irritated that he’s probably going to have to deal with two insomniac twenty-year-olds tonight. 

The sky darkens, a light drizzle falls and feels like icy needles against your exposed wrists and the lower half of your face. Gloved fingers flick away excess water that beads on the visor, impairing your vision. From the back of the Regalia, you see Noct shoot you a worried look. He always looks so worried when you drive in the rain, like he fears you might melt or catch ill. You flash Choco Jr.’s headlight at him and he winces, covers his face with his arm before shooting you a goofy looking frown that you guess is supposed to make you feel ashamed. Instead, you grin and laugh. That gets the prince grinning and he turns away just as you all drive up to Wiz’s Chocobo Post. The damp dirt road has the moped’s wheels kicking up mud on your legs. 

“Six, _seriously_?” You gripe. Mud is what keeps you from following the others to Wiz’s proprietor to rent out the dinky little caravan on the periphery of the property. You’ve just finished wiping the last splatter from your boots when you hear Prompto’s voice take on a high, complaining pitch. The muddied rag in your hand is left on the scooter’s seat and you go to the caravan. “What’s wrong?” Well, you immediately see what’s wrong right as the question leaves your mouth. The camper is small and cramped, so unlike the spacious model in Hammerhead. It’ll be a squeeze for the four guys but there’s no way in _hell_ that you’re going to subject _yourself_ to such sleeping conditions. 

“How are we gonna get a decent night’s sleep like this?” Noct sighs. 

“And we have to be ready for that hunt tomorrow,” adds Gladiolus, arms crossed to express his displeasure. 

Eyebrows shoot up and you query, “ _Hunt_?”  


“Yes, there’s a beast around these parts that has been frightening the chocobos. They can’t be  rented out unless the creature is dealt with,” Iggy informs you. 

“Hm.” Head bobs. Gloves are flicked off and placed on the counter of the kitchenette along with your phone when you realize it got a little damp in your pocket. “Okay. I can work with that.” 

Big blue eyes blink at you. “Huh?” 

“There’s a trade deficit here, Prom. As a mage of honor, I can’t let that stand.” A sneaky smirk tugs up the corner of your mouth and the guys are all reminded of how roguish you can be when you aren’t tripping over your own tongue. “I’ll see if they have a spare room, seeing as we’re risking our _lives_ for them tomorrow.” 

When you tactfully confront the proprietor about the housing issue, he’s quick to agree, “We can spare a bed. Seein’ as how you’re helping us out with Deadeye and all.” Easy as pie. You didn’t even need to give him a longwinded lecture on commutative justice. Successful, you waltz on over to Choco Jr. to recover your belongings from the storage tail. When you turn around after slinging your backpack over your shoulder, you nearly bump right into Ignis. You’ve thought it a million times before, but he needs a damn bell. 

Emerald eyes watch you for a moment before the tactician clears his throat and offers, “I’ll walk you to your room.” 

“Th-Thanks, Ignis.” 

A bell tinkles when you enter the building. It grabs your attention, small and silver. The post’s main building houses a kitchen, storage, rec room, and living quarters. You’re spared a small room that usually goes to summer part-timers. A twin-sized bed, chest of drawers, and nightstand crowd the room. You appreciate the single window. Much to your surprise, when you drop your bag on the bed and sit next to it to rummage through it, Ignis pauses in the doorway before coming over and sitting next to you. His knee almost touches yours. Throats are cleared delicately. When he doesn’t immediately begin talking, you pull the bell out of the baggy sleeve of your sweater and rotate it between your fingers. 

Finally, Ignis speaks. “I hope I didn’t upset you earlier. That wasn’t my intention. However, if I did cause you any discomfort, I apologize.” 

Gaze flickers his way from the corner of your eye, trying and failing to be stealthy. He’s watching you intently in the warm light of the incandescent lamp on the nightstand. “Upset me?” 

“About the Spire. I shouldn’t have pushed the issue.” 

“Hm,” you hum, focus on the small bell and the way the metal vibrates against your fingertips, “I can’t fault you for being curious. Besides, you didn’t upset me, so the apology isn’t necessary. Still, I appreciate it all the same.” 

“I’m... glad.”  


Silence drags on. It feels like Ignis still has something to say, tension built up in the lean body next to you. But he’s  a bit too polite to be terribly blunt with you. Though he’s sassy as all hell, snarking and joking, he’s always wary of the invisible lines one should never cross with you lest they face your quiet wrath; your hooded, disapproving eyes; your disgusted sneers. The silence makes it easier for him to hear a soft tinkling noise. Green eyes look down to see you cupping a silver bell in your left palm, your right index finger tracing patterns along the dull, unpolished surface. The air seems to vibrate and pulsate around the small thing and for a second Ignis thinks he sees a faint glyph flicker into existence before vanishing. 

“What are you doing? Did-?” He pinches the bridge of his nose and murmurs, “Did you steal that bell from the door? Honestly, (y/n), they’ve opened their doors to you and you filch their _bell_?” 

“I can only answer one question at a time, Iggy,” you complain, trying to dodge the second question. If anyone has caught on to your bad habit of filching random things, it’s Ignis Scientia. Many a time he’s seen you hug your cardigan to your body and he just _knows_. However, in your defense, you steal meaningless little trinkets and put enchanted items in their place. Iggy doesn’t know that last part, though.  “ _Anyway_ ,” you drawl, “I’m enchanting this bell so that if anyone who wishes to do anyone harm in this building tries to enter, the bell will ring as usual but the sound will knock the would-be assailant unconscious. So, obviously I’m gonna put it back!” 

Perfectly arched eyebrows raise in interest. “Hm. That’s nifty. How do you know a spell like that?” 

You shrug dismissively. "I've been enchanting for a while. It's a diverse field of magic that doesn't _depend_ on magic type but it can augment your magic. Enchantments are done if you want a spell to endure when you’re no longer around to maintain it." 

"Binding magic falls under such a branch, does it not?" Ignis sees your frozen expression and tries to soften his tone. However, he still sounds accusatory. "You had your notes all over camp one morning. What is it that you're planning?" 

The bell is dropped on the nightstand with a distinct _clang!_ and for a second Ignis thinks it might render him unconscious for irritating you. Those wicked eyes that have come to haunt his dreams scorch him. "I haven’t planned anything yet. What I _have_ is a 'rough draft.’" 

His curiosity is building up more and more with how evasive you’re being. That secrecy of yours never does its job. It never pushes Ignis away. Never stifles his interest. Instead, it lures him in deeper and deeper and deeper. "A rough draft of what?" 

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.” A strained smile struggles to reach your eyes with that thing that’s barely passable for a joke. 

“ _(y/n)_.” 

It’s almost funny, this dynamic. This little dance of the brunet’s, trying to coax you out of your shell with kind words, sharp intellect, and good food. And you, dodging all the while and occasionally gracing him, indulging him with some part of you, some small glimpse into your mind, your soul, that he clings onto and cherishes. He doesn’t realize that this is a dance for two. That you’re trying to coax him, as well. 

Leaning back onto your hands, you fix Ignis with a calculating look. He feels like he’s on fire when you look at him like this. Irises barely visible with how you narrow your eyes, with how your lashes obscure the meaning behind your gaze. Ignis twists his body, rearranges himself so that he can better match that gaze. “Magic costs me nothing, Scientia. I can cast spells all day, all  through the night. It doesn’t matter how strong or weak the magic, I can do it until I die of old age. But that’s me and my ilk. Magic is limited in others, others that aren’t like me and mine, but the only one I’m concerning myself with is Noctis.” 

Curiosity has all but consumed Ignis now. “This spell will help him with his magic?” 

An account of a king being burned from the inside out floods your mind, being swallowed whole by what was supposed to protect him and his kingdom. An ancestor’s tear-blotted passage, lamenting the fall of their king:  “ _His skin was cracked, molten and burning on the inside, like a hot coal. And I could not reverse it. He was devoured. I could not save him. Ramuh, forgive me, for I have failed. I have outlived my king and brought immeasurable shame unto my family._ ” 

Fingers still themselves from a nervous tic. “With his capacity for magic and his tolerance for it, too. By directly linking myself to him, I’ll be like a fount of magic. Although I’m not sure how unlimited his capacities will be, considering that a bond won’t make him _like_ me. We’ll simply... share some... _properties_ of our selves.” 

You aren’t telling the whole truth. The truth hidden between the lines of Lumis’ passages. For a strange loyalty to Noctis, one that is in your very makeup, the product of divine intervention; for an almost detrimental desire to fulfill your duty, to be what you’re _supposed_ to be to king and kingdom; for an inferiority complex instilled in you by a sham of an institution, you’ll overlook the hidden warnings. You’ll overlook why your mother didn’t use this magic to aid King Regis. 

“Are you sure-?”  


“I know what I’m doing.” 

To Ignis, this is your catchphrase. He’ll find you in the morning, eating toast with one hand and stirring something toxic with the other; he’ll try to take away your toast and you’ll snort, “I know what I’m doing.” Though he knows you’re brilliant and peerless in your field, he doesn’t know how true that statement is. You’ve set a precedent, established a history of bad behavior. That tendency to forego food and sleep because you’d been taught that that’s how “dutiful” and “hardworking” people behaved, that taking care of yourself meant you didn’t care enough about your duties. The many mornings he’d find you looking like a corpse, grimoire in one hand and pen in the other. 

It’s obvious to him and the others, but Ignis sees it more clearly. How you were trained to base your self-worth entirely on what you contribute to others, how much you’re willing to sacrifice, how far you’re willing to push yourself to the brink of collapse just to be seen as _useful_ , just to be acknowledged for your efforts. It’s dangerous. It’s dangerous because he can see how deeply ingrained this mentality is in you. 

Ignis is pulled from his thoughts by your mellow voice. He recognizes what you’re saying immediately as the passage entitled “The Mage” from the book of Cosmogony; what’s considered an account of Ramuh’s own special covenant with the King. He’d read it to Noct. "‘Summoning forth from nothing, in his infinite wisdom and mercy, a mage most loyal and sage, as a guardian against the long night.’" Ignis watches you closely and you grin, “I always took that seriously as a child. Of course, this passage was taken to refer to _all_ those who call themselves mages.” 

“But certainly not among those who read the passage with any level of care. Even in this day and age, there are many of us who are wise to the Spire’s revisionist brand of history, though they have drastically changed their tune with your family in charge.” 

" _Yikes._ ” 

You laugh away the awkwardness of that false statement. “You mean the one where they didn’t slaughter my family? Or the one where they didn’t turn ‘mage’ into a word to mean a particularly bourgeois class of individuals who happen to have nice gardens?” 

“Did _you_ have a nice garden?” 

That gets a snort out of you. “Yeah, I’m speaking ill of those who have great gardens but I really miss the Spire’s greenhouse. I’d be in there for hours at a time, talking to the-” Voice cuts off as you stop yourself within an inch of shaming yourself. 

Green eyes glitter, full of mirth. “I’ve heard that it’s highly beneficial to speak or even sing to plants. You’ll face no judgment here.” 

“Good. You know I won’t abide _your_ teasing. Especially since I know that _you_ sometimes sing to yourself when you cook.” 

“What?” 

“Uh-huh. I’ve heard you. My, Scientia, but you do have a _lovely_ singing voice.” A dreamy, teasing sigh leaves your lips, “ _Oh_ , on those days the meals are especially wonderful!” You enjoy his blush before lightly pointing out, “Thanks for keeping me company but it’s getting late. Make sure Noct sleeps. Hm?” 

“It _is_ late,” Ignis agrees, gives you a lingering look before standing and making his way to the door. He pauses in the doorway, looks at you over his shoulder. “Goodnight, (y/n).” 

“Night, Iggy.” 

It’s 3:00 a.m. when Gladio shakes Ignis awake in the cramped caravan. He’s sitting at the small table attached to the kitchenette while Prompto and Noct share the bed. Gladio had been sleeping across from Iggy when he heard a buzz come from the kitchen sink’s counter and discovered that you’d left your phone behind.  “What is it?” Ignis mumbles, barely lucid. 

“Mage- (y/n) left their phone here,” explains Gladio, voice hardly above a whisper yet still rumbling. 

A sleep-numbed hand clumsily pushes up his glasses. “And?” 

“Thought you should return it. They probably have their alarm set on it.” 

“Why would I-” 

The bodyguard gives the strategist a pointed look that has the green-eyed man wide awake. “Pretty sure they won’t mind you wakin’ them up in the middle of the night for a special visit.” 

Ignis snatches the phone from Gladio’s hand and snaps defensively, “Returning a cell phone is _hardly_ a ‘special visit.’” 

“Uh-huh. But you can _make it_ special.”  


“That’s enough of that.”  


Cold air has a way of waking Ignis up even better than embarrassment. Which is why, even with  self-deception, he isn’t sure that what happens next is the trick of a sleep-addled mind. The bell tinkles softly when he enters the building and makes his way to the living quarters. The door to your room is open, casting pale moonlight across the hall. What makes Ignis pause is the sight of a shadow that paces back and forth, posture hunched, head bobbing as incoherent words are mumbled at rapid-fire. The floorboards creak. It looks familiar. Is it... _you_? 

The height is difficult to gauge, stretched out along the wall, but the stature looks the same, the cut of the figure so familiar even though it’s merely a shadow. Ignis wonders what you’re doing up at this hour. Maybe you realized your phone is missing? He fights off a bizarre feeling of dread to stand in the doorway. Mouth opens to speak and the words freeze in his throat like an ice cube. In the bed, you rest easily, the sound of your even breath a backdrop to that fervent whispering. The intruder continues to pace, either not noticing him or not caring. 

Suddenly, the dark figure stops to stand next to you, hand hovering over where yours rests under the blanket. A long, crooked nail drags against the floral duvet. With the way it’s backlit from the dim light of the moon, Ignis can’t make out any discernible features, only the elegant, familiar slope of a jaw. Slowly, cautiously, the intruder turns their head up toward the light, to glance out of the window as if waiting. The moment doesn’t last long. But Ignis sees all he needs to see in that short amount of time. 

The moonlight catches something, reflects blearily. Exposed teeth, lips almost nonexistent. Green eyes waver, travel up from the stub of lip to the gaping hole where a nose used to be. Breath rattles out from between slick teeth, rattles in through that hole. Alarmed, Ignis looks to the side, to the light-switch on the wall, and flicks it on. When he whips his head back around, the intruder is gone. 

“What the-?” Ignis jolts violently the moment your voice pierces the thick silence to whine. You pull the duvet up over your face. “ _Ugh_. What gives?” 

Ignis still stares at where the phantom once was. Heart rattles like that haunting breath. It takes him a moment to compose himself. “You left your phone...” Said phone is in a death grip in his hand, the volume button pressed to max accidentally, something that will scare you half to death in about an hour. “Was- Was there someone in your room with you just now?” 

The blanket is tugged down slightly for you to glower over it. “The only intruder here is you.” Seeing his strained expression, you sit up and sigh. Beckoning him over, you apologize, “I’m sorry for snapping. What time is it?” 

Talking to you, hearing your groggy voice, gets his heart rate down. “Three in the morning.” 

“Three in the-?!” Stop. Hold on. You force yourself to breathe and center yourself. Besides, you _just_ apologized for snapping. Better not snap right after that. Eyeing him up and down, you note how rigid he is. “Thank you for bringing my phone.” 

He doesn’t even hear you, eyes returned to the spot where the creature had stood in contemplation, where it had ghosted its fingertips longingly over your covered hand. The others are confused by how quiet Ignis is on the hunt for Deadeye. It isn’t until you’re all in the friendly (or semi-friendly, in your case) company of chocobos that he comes back to himself, finally puts the creature out of his mind as some hallucination or trick of the light. It’s a hard lie to buy, but he does it all the same. 

The haughty bird that was thrust at you by a wary worker is slow to warm. To Ignis, the bird fits you perfectly, but he keeps this to himself as he murmurs softly to his docile companion. The chocobo watches you with simmering blue eyes, nips at your fingers when you speak improperly, preens when you put on airs and treat him like royalty. It’s only when you’ve bestowed upon him  a lofty title, “The Feathered Fury, Lord Apricus the Deathbringer,” that he allows you to pet him.  “But I’ll call you Sunny,” you murmur into those silky feathers and Apricus consents with a bump of his beak against the top of your head. 

“That’s a fine name, (y/n),” Ignis chuckles from beside the pen that you stand in, patting his own chocobo, though he doesn’t get nearly as affectionate as you- the only one who comes close to your level of affection is Prompto, since you practically bury your face in Apricus’ chest every chance you get. 

With a broad smile, you query, “What’s _this_ lovely guy’s name? He’s so- Ow!” You get a harder, jealous peck for laying the compliments on a little thick for another bird. 

Ignis’ cheeks color slightly. “We’ve... settled on Ben.” The chocobo makes a displeased noise and bumps its beak against his shoulder. His cheeks darken. 

“Uh-huh,” you drawl, an evil smirk on your lips. Ignis swears Apricus mirrors the look. “What’s his _real_ name?” 

The silence lasts a century. Ignis’ voice is barely a mumble, “Eggs Benedict.”

* * *

**Gladiolus**

You’re headed through Duscae on the way to Lestallum to meet up with Gladiolus’ sister, Iris, to set up a battle plan or... _something_. Something concerning Noctis, the Empire, and the usual suspects. You aren’t too sure, to be honest. You’ve been having these really bizarre, hyperrealistic dreams that you ponder during the day like you’re Florus the Seer, distracting you.  “ _Sometimes I drink like ol’ Florus,_ ” you muse, wiping a splattered insect from your visor with your gloved finger. “ _Dreaming of incoherently whispering toads and shriveled flowers_.” 

Though you’re excited about the prospect of meeting another Amicitia and to actually be in a _real_ city, there’s a shadow looming over you- literally and metaphorically. Trying to ignore the way the Spire pierces the warm orange skyline like a serrated dagger proves next to impossible. That is, until you get a text from the contact labeled “Gladdy Daddy”: “ _Gonna stop. His Highness needs a word._ ” 

Cheeks flush with heat and you pocket your phone. That contact name? _You_ didn’t pick it. When you and Gladio returned from your exile back when you were going at each other’s throats, Prompto had snagged your phone and altered your contact for Gladiolus. Then Gladio saw it, laughed, and suggested you keep it that way. And, for whatever reason, you did. Regret stirs up every time he calls or texts you. Sometimes he shoots you a text for no reason just so he can lean over your shoulder to see the dumb contact pop up on your screen. Yet you still don’t change the name back. No idea _why_... 

A flash of amber and you know the Shield is glancing at you from the backseat of the Regalia just to check that you got the message (Since he’d likely _scold you_ for answering... So why bother texting you at all?). A nod of your head has him leaning forward to pat Iggy’s shoulder. The Regalia is pulled off to the side of the road and you follow suit. You’re barely off of the moped, footsteps exaggerated by puddles of rainwater, when you’re already directing your gaze to the prince and asking, “What do you need?” 

“So dutiful,” Prompto teases from Noct’s side. The sharpshooter is immediately cut by your intense eyes. With a nervous smile, he steps partially behind the prince. 

“I need your opinion,” Noctis answers. The prince leans casually against the side of the car like  you have all the time in the world to talk despite the urgency of the setting sun. “Specs says we should head to the Spire before nightfall but Prom and I think we should go to Wiz Chocobo Post.” 

“The Spire is closer, by far,” Ignis interjects, pining you with a loaded look- a look that you would _normally_ cave to. But right now? When the realization that none of these guys knows that the Spire is actually an ally to the Empire hits you like a truck? You’re a bit busy fighting off a panic attack to side with the rational, level-headed man. 

“But... _Chocobos_!” Prom insists like that’s a valid argument.  


“It’s _too far_ ,” Iggy sighs, exasperated.  


A rumbling voice comes from beside you to say, “Or we could camp.” 

There’s a collective eye rolling and grumbling about _real_ beds and how it _just_ rained and you all can’t _possibly_ camp _now_. And you agree with the others... However, like a drowning person, you leap at that suggestion like it’s a buoy and add, silver tongue working on overdrive, “A _wonderful_ suggestion, Gladio. I’ve heard that the camping spots out here in Duscae are amazing.” Eyes like butterscotch alight on you appreciatively. It’s a little distressing to you that you’ve begun associating aspects of the Shield’s appearance with candy... Hair the color of licorice, butterscotch eyes... You shake your head furiously, try to shake those invasive thoughts out, too, while you’re at it. 

“Haven’t you camped out here before?” Gladio asks, crossing his arms and shooting you a curious look. “You grew up in this area.” 

Before you can answer, Noct states flatly, “While it’s nice to get everyone’s opinion, I’m overruling it. Wiz’s it is.” 

“Tyrant,” grumbles Gladio. 

As you turn on your heel, relief flooding your system, you catch the raven-haired prince’s eye. There’s an understanding there. Because while nobody knows that the Spire has thrown in with the Empire and that _you_ were offered a place in the new world order, Noctis knows that you were stripped of your claim to the Spire practically the second your mother died. This little talk about sleeping arrangements was all done for _your_ sake; orchestrated by the prince so that you all wouldn’t end up darkening the Spire’s steps through a majority vote. He just thought you might pick Wiz’s over the Spire. Then Gladio had to throw a wrench in the prince’s system by picking off menu and offering a third option. 

“Thanks,” you mouth and Noct smiles before hopping into the backseat of the Regalia. 

It’s when you’re about to get back on Choco Jr. that you see it: A debased coin. It glints dimly in the light of the setting sun, nestled on a bed of verdant grass on the side of the road. Ignis watches you in the rearview mirror and you gesture for him to drive on. That pale brow furrows but the bespectacled man starts up the Regalia and coasts down the damp road. It’s a relief. If _any_ of them saw you go out of your way for a damn coin, you’d _never_ hear the end of it. Gladio _already_ calls you a hoarder. 

“ _Pros of getting the coin: Enchantments, maybe I can sell it for some gil, Noct might like it...”_ Finger taps your chin, pondering this further, _“Cons? None? Gladio doesn’t even have to know it happened._ ”  In truth, you don’t need to do much to convince yourself to hop the guardrail and collect the coin. 

The sloped earth is slick yet you continue toward the coin and pick it up anyway. Fingers quickly swipe away the mud before you pocket it in your heavy cardigan and turn to get back on the road. Two steps up the slope and you start to rethink all of your life choices. Mostly because the earth slides and you go along with it. One moment you’re next to the guardrail with Choco Jr. in sight and the next your back is slamming into a tree and you’re flat on your ass. Dampness from the mud kicked up from the rain seeps into your lower back. It takes a moment for you to be able to breathe again after getting the wind knocked out of you. 

For a few minutes, you sit in a daze. Warm orange light from the streetlight on the road kisses your muddy boots. There’s a large dark streak of mud cutting through the grass where you slipped and fell. Hands brace on your thighs to push yourself into a standing position, using the tree to help, but you think better of it when your back throbs. “Ramuh,” you sigh, eyes turning up toward the night sky, “why have you forsaken me? Was it the incense? I know I lit off-brand ones but convenience stores don’t carry ritual goods. And I know I spent my gil on Yoo-hoo once instead of those sweet smelling candles, but Noctis wanted-” 

_Bzzt! Bzzt! Bzzt!_

Vibrations from the phone in your pocket have you startling back to reality. Groaning, you tug the phone free from your pocket and grimly answer it once you see that smug contact picture and the absurd name. You don’t even get to moan out a greeting because Gladiolus barks, “Where’re you at, (y/n)?” 

You click your tongue, take in your grim surroundings, and start, “So, I have a problem...” 

There’s a pause. You know he’s rubbing his forehead. “What is it?” 

“I sorta fell and hurt my back...” You’re trying desperately not to elaborate too much. Gods, you swear you can hear his silent judgment over the phone. If you close your eyes you can see his pursed lips and hooded eyes, the hypercritical jerk. “I’m at the bottom of a... ditch, I guess.” 

“ _Please don’t ask how-_ ”  


“How the hell did that happen?” When you take too long to respond, so long that the brunet  checks his phone to make sure you’re still on the line, he growls, “Tell me. Now.” 

“There was a coin...” You respond, purposefully mumbling, lips _barely even moving_ , in the hopes that he won’t hear you properly. He does. _Oh_ , he does. His long exhale tells you that he heard you crystal clear and put all the pieces together with that little bit of information that he had to pry from you. 

“I’m comin’ for you, Magey. Stay put.” 

Eyes roll, still able to be sarcastic while incapacitated in the dark with the very real risk of being killed by daemons. “Like I have a- Hello? _Hello_?” You stare at the phone. The call ended. “What a jerk.” 

Stars glitter up above. The air is cool, the sweet scent of rain lingering. From where you sit against the tree, the earthy aroma of freshly upturned dirt and mud is almost overpowering. That iron staff digs into your back until you wizen up and tug it out from where it’s wedged between you and the tree. “That’s gonna bruise,” you wince and try in vain to stand once more. There’s something about your right leg that feels strange. An uncomfortable tightness bordering on numbness. _Oh_... In your dramatic flailing, you hyperextended your knee as you fell. 

Lips thin into a frustrated line, breath coming out in a harsh huff through your nose. You’re alone  in the creeping night for several long minutes. It feels like a lifetime. A loud cry pierces the silent night, sounding distinctly avian. It reminds you of the documentaries Drusa tried to get you to watch, always about some creature with a monotone voiceover that really killed the mood. You’d end up eventually muting them and putting on subtitles just to stay awake and attentive. 

“(y/n)?” Gladio’s familiar voice bellows just as that cry starts up once more. He leans against the guardrail and looks down, following the trail of mud to you. A bright yellow head pops up next to him. 

“Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” You call out, oozing derision. It’s pretty commendable, actually, given the state that you’re in. The Shield’s face splits into a grin. The fact that you’re being a little sassy ass is a good sign to him, even _if_ you’re slumped against a tree looking like a broken doll. He promptly vaults the guardrail and slowly makes his way down to your side, carefully leaning his bodyweight back so as not to tumble along and share your fate. Once he’s by your side, you snort, “Did you _seriously_ come to my rescue on a chocobo? Why not take the Regalia?” 

“They weren’t renting ‘em out ‘cause of some predator, but I told the proprietor that it was an emergency: A mage in distress.” Gladio smirks, squatting next to you and glossing over the Regalia issue because he doesn’t want you to know that he secretly wanted this rescue to be _dramatic_ and _memorable_. The Shield turns to look up at the bird and drawls, “They’re pretty loy-”  It’s gone. 

“Damn fine bird you picked, Gladiolus.” 

“Guess it ran home. That predator’s in the area so it probably got spooked.” 

On edge (which is painful, since reflexively tensing up your muscles makes your back throb), you ask lightly, “ _Um_... How likely is it that this ‘predator’ might find us?” 

Broad shoulders shrug without a care in the world. “Slim to none. We’re headin’ after it in the morning. It’s pretty close to Wiz’s.” 

A sigh of relief leaves you. “Okay. Well, the chocobo ditching us isn’t a big deal. I still have my moped so we can- Ah! _Dammit_!” Pain lances up your leg when you try to put on a tough front and stand without Gladio’s help. You flop back against the tree (not exactly the wisest reaction) and almost drop your staff. 

One warm hand grabs your shoulder and adds pressure, as if to make sure you won’t try and move again. His voice is low with that caring tone that he seems to reserve for you when you two aren’t sniping at each other. “How does your back feel?” 

“A little sore but not too bad,” you admit. “The worst of it is my knee. I think I hyperextended it.” 

“All right. I’m gonna need you to stand for me, (y/n). Lean on me and _don’t_ put any weight on your injured leg.” 

“Psh. Like I would.” 

“You literally _just_ did that. Don’t blame me for takin' precautions.” The Shield has you lean against the tree once you’re upright and then proceeds to move your leg back and forth. Or, at least, he _attempts_ to. It’s almost impossible for you to straighten your leg and the moment you hiss out in pain, Gladio stops. The older brunet rights himself and crosses his arms. He’s wearing that disappointed expression that kills you a little on the inside. “Well, you were right,” Gladio sighs.  “You’re not gonna walk on that for a while, Cat Mage.” 

“ _Cat Mage_?” You scoff, pain taking a backseat to offense. 

“Yeah.” Amber eyes gleam. “You’re like a cat. Any shiny thing on the ground and you’re pouncin’ on it and adding it to your collection... _Hoarder_ Cat Mage.” 

You watch him for a long moment, gaze simmering in the faint light from the street. “When we get back to the others, I think you should start praying to Ramuh.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“’Cause he’s the only reason why I haven’t turned you into an ice sculpture.” Despite the confirmation that you hyperextended your knee, you still try to walk on your own. You argue that your staff isn’t just a weapon but doubles as an actual walking staff. Needless to say, the Shield isn’t convinced. Especially not when you head for the slope and fall. Twice. 

“No, you don’t need to carry me,” you insist but sigh in relief as Gladio helps you up each time, having the patience of a saint or finding amusement in your stubbornness. The reality is that he wants you to see the error of your ways. So he’s quick to counter when you say, "Sorry that I keep going down on you." Y’know... To your credit, you hear what’s wrong with what you’re saying as it comes out of your mouth. Too bad you can’t swallow those words back up and choke on them before Gladio employs his best method of breaking you out of your stubborn cycle of behavior: Embarrassment. 

“You can go down on me any time you like, Magey.”  


Frozen in his arms, you spit out like a viper, “Shut up! Just _shut up_!” 

A rumbling chuckle reverberates from his chest into your side where you slump against him. “I’ll stop teasing if you suck up your pride and let me carry you, Magey.” 

Jaw clenches on obscenities. After a century, you relent, “Fine.” Like you weigh absolutely nothing, the Shield scoops you into his arms and begins heading into the trees. “Not to be a backseat driver or anything, but the road is _that_ way.” You point in the opposite direction of where the Shield is taking you. 

“We’re not goin’ back to the road,” Gladio replies simply, staring straight ahead. 

“Why not?”  


“It’s too late. We’re close to a campground, anyway.”  


You groan, “Ugh. _Camping_?” 

Amber eyes flicker down at you. “I thought you _wanted_ to camp?” 

“We don’t have any camping gear, Gladiolus. I’m not sleeping out in the open on wet rock!” When he doesn’t respond you narrow your eyes. For the first time since he showed up, you notice the backpack he has stylishly slung over one shoulder. Through pursed lips you state more than ask, “You brought camping gear.” 

In the cover of darkness, you can’t see his faint blush. But you certainly feel the way his bare chest warms against you. “So what if I did? I wanted to be prepared. One of us has to be.” 

“Excuse _me_ for not being able to see the future.” 

“Wet ground, steep slope? Doesn’t take any fancy magic to see how that would end.” 

“Hindsight is 20/20,” you snap snootily. 

Unfortunately, by way of camping gear, Gladiolus only managed to stuff a sleeping bag and a blanket into his bag. He seems to really want to get up close and personal with nature. Totally not your style. But you’re a little fearful of him invoking more innuendo if you make your displeasure known. The sleeping bag is laid out on the campground, close to the fire that you lit, so that you two aren’t left trying to sleep on the slick rock. Aggravation has your mood souring, especially when you think about how the others probably have a bed, shower, and a _roof_. Though the stars are beautiful, you feel exposed. 

“Why’re you so amped up?” Gladio suddenly asks from his crouched position by the fire. He’s heating up water for the two cups of instant ramen that he brought. When you saw the “food,” you rolled your eyes so hard that you nearly sent yourself into another dimension. The loud growl from your stomach, however? That’s what keeps your mouth shut. But Gladio is commenting on how you keep bobbing your good knee from where you sit awkwardly on the opened up sleeping bag. Not wanting to admit that you only abide camping when you’re in a tent because you feel like there are eyes everywhere in the night, you decide to lie. Well, _half_ -lie. 

“ _Don’t want to seem like a paranoid weirdo._ ” 

“I’m excited to meet your sister. I bet she’s really sweet compared to you.” 

Hands pause in their task of pouring steaming water into styrofoam cups. Amber eyes peer at you from beneath thick, dark lashes. “And what’s _that_ supposed to mean?” 

You lean forward, elbow on your good knee. Those wicked eyes of yours are hooded, a devilish smirk on your lips. “It means I think you’re a _punk_.” 

He laughs at your blunt teasing. “Hmph. You’re not wrong, (y/n). Iris is... somethin’ else.” The Shield’s eyes go a little misty, looking far away, before he snaps back into reality and asks, “You plannin’ on raiding every bookstore in Lestallum once we get there?” 

“That’s given. I’ve never been to a real city before.” 

Gladio shoots you that same quizzical look as before when you’d spoken about Duscae like it was a foreign land. The cup of ramen is handed to you along with a fork but you aren’t being let off the hook. The Shield sits next to you heavily. “Never been to a city?” 

Shoulders bob up and down in an indifferent shrug. You admit lamely, “I mean... I grew up in the Spire.” 

“Yeah, I know. Why wouldn’t you have been to Lestallum at least once? It’s not that far off from the Spire.” Gladio still isn’t catching on to what you mean. And who would? When everyone heard that you were raised and trained in the Spire, nobody thought you weren’t allowed to leave. They assumed your life was relatively... _normal_. Normal in the sense that you weren’t confined. 

“No, Gladiolus.” Your demeanor begins to ice over, becoming defensive. Breath cools the steaming ramen. You take a bite, chew, swallow. The Shield watches you closely the entire time. “When I say that I ‘grew up in the Spire,’ I mean that I was never allowed to leave except for the one time I went to the Crown City.” 

“Why?”  


“For training. My magic needed to be as refined as possible and I needed to be a finely tuned  instrument in order to better aid His Highness.” Is your indifferent response. Tone takes on a proud edge, posture straightening. “Obviously it all paid off spectacularly. I’d argue I’m an invaluable asset to Noctis.” 

Gladio wants to say that that doesn’t make any sense, that it’s downright bizarre that you would have such intense training that you wouldn’t even be allowed to _leave the college_. That it seems cruel to him that you would essentially be a prisoner from infancy. But one look at your severe expression, an expression that _dares_ him to disagree with you, and the brunet bodyguard decides against it. 

“Oh.” 

That night, you sleep with your backs to each other. There’s no initial awkwardness, much to Gladio’s surprise. He expected the usual sweating and stammering from his favorite fidgety mage, but there’s none of that. At most, there was blushing on _his_ part when you patted his hand and thanked him for both the rescue and dinner. “You’ve saved me several times since we started this journey together, Gladiolus. And I just want you to know that I always appreciate it. I always appreciate _you_ ,” you’d said, eyes turned up to him. And he’d felt his heart skip a beat at such genuine gratitude. 

And so, with his back to you, he drifts off into a sound, restful sleep. Until he hears it. Amber eyes snap open at the sound of hushed words. Breath floats on cool night air, carrying over to the Shield. Goosebumps erupt along his skin, his back to you... _exposed_. Though his muscles tighten, instincts tell him not to look. His gut warns him that something terrible is behind him- a thing of nightmares, feared by a child at bedtime, something that lurks in a closet or under a bed. 

“ _-for... thee..._ ” The voice sounds like a long death-rattle, struggling to overcome phlegm, to fall off of trembling lips. Tone shifts, breathy voice taking on a warning edge that turns Gladiolus’ blood to slush in his veins. “ _He comes... for... thee..._ ” 

“Who?” 

Gladio’s heart leaps when he hears you respond. Your voice is subdued, sleepy. He realizes you’re barely lucid. Fingers dig into the rough wool of your shared blanket, the fabric shifting along his bare arm. Tension coils in his muscles, tightening and tightening until they feel like they’re about to burst.  “ _Tr-Traitor... Traitor..._ ” The voice seems to choke on the word, halting. Gladio can’t tell if it’s fear or anger that makes the owner of the voice stumble until the volume of the voice suddenly and violently upsurges into a shrill scream, “ _Traitor! Traitor! Traitor!_ ” 

Shoving away the primal fear that kept him immobile, the Shield sits up abruptly and turns to you. Wide eyes scan the campground wildly for the intruder. Gladio’s sudden movements have you jolting awake. Eyes stare up at the starry night sky for a split second before turning to the Shield at your side. On his forehead, you see a thin sheen of sweat. “You okay? Did you have a nightmare?” You ask, voice gravelly from sleep. 

Golden eyes stare at you through the faint blue glow of the runes- the runes that he _knows_ are protecting you two. He swallows hard, heart thudding painfully against his ribs. Sleep-fogged eyes stare back at him from a placid face, the dusky lavender of your sweater pooled around your head. He finds himself reaching forward, palm cupping your jaw, thumb grazing over your cheekbone. The feel of you beneath his hand calms him.  Wide awake now, you start to stammer out, “U-Uh-” 

And Gladio cuts you off to murmur, “Must’ve been.” 

While Gladio gets back to sleep, you certainly don’t. Because Gladiolus Amicitia keeps his damn hand on your face throughout the entire night, arm crossed over your chest, body facing you. This helps him sleep. You? Not so much. At Wiz’s, you aren’t allowed on the hunt for Deadeye. This comes as a surprise to nobody but you. Though you know that it’s obvious that you’re sleep- deprived and can barely walk, much less stand, that doesn’t keep you from trying to argue your case. Oh, the _glare_ Gladio throws your way for it. 

“A potion-” 

“No need to use curatives,” Ignis interjects, catching on to his friend’s foul mood. Plus, he actually agrees that you look pretty awful and is angling for a way to get who he considers to be the most overworked member of the group to _rest_. “Some rest will do you some good, (y/n).” 

“And the caravan is already paid for,” Noct agrees, eyeing you up and down with obvious displeasure. 

“Plus,” smirks Prompto, already knowing you well enough to be privy to your interests, blue eyes glinting evilly, “there’s a TV with _cable_.” 

“Cable?” 

And that’s how you’re sold on the idea of letting your prince go off on a hunt without you. For the first couple of hours you indulge in a campy horror film that uses an excessive amount of fake blood that’s both far too thin and entirely too orange. But you quickly become restless. Though, you know that if you _try_ to follow the others, you’ll be in for an earful. Which is how you find yourself greeting all of the stabled chocobos. 

They’re all eager for scratches and pats on the head, to have their vibrant feathers stroked. They’re every bit how Drusa had described them in her book: Amiable, bright, and eager. They give off an aura of friendliness that soothes your nerves, taking your mind off of both the guys and your aching bones. Well, all but one chocobo, that is. The yellow beast sees you coming from a mile away from his place in the last stable and turns his head away like a snob. You hobble over to him, leaning heavily against your staff, and blue eyes glance at you with mild (so, _so_ mild) concern as you take far too long to get to him. You’re starting to think you’re projecting too much on a damn bird. 

“And who might you be?” You ask the stoic chocobo. He barely turns his head toward you and blinks his simmering blue eyes once, _slowly_ , as if to convey annoyance. “Haughty, huh? I can appreciate that. May I pet you,” you look down at the little placard that shows the name ‘Feathers’ and wince, “ _sir_?”  _That_ gets his attention. You’re a little surprised by the ego on this damn bird. As you speak to him, smoothing out his soft feathers, you notice that he responds well to flowery compliments and formal language. When you throw in slang, your fingers get nipped. 

“Make a new friend?” Asks Gladiolus from behind you, a grin obvious in his voice. The others returned with him, the hunt a success, but they’re busy marveling over their own chocobos and deciding on what to eat to come over. 

“Yes. I’d like to formally introduce you to...” The chocobo puffs out his chest, waiting for whatever name you’re about to give him. “The Feathered Fury, Lord Apricus the Deathbringer. That’s how you’ll address him. But _I_ get to call him Sunny. Right, Sunny?” You simper and get an appreciative bump on the head from Sunny’s beak. 

“Lame.” 

When you turn to Gladio to scold him your eyes immediately zero in on the chocobo at his side. “And who is this?” 

The Shield responds smoothly, “Lady Dandelion.”  


“ _What_?” You laugh and Sunny caws along with you.  


Gladio frowns and crosses his arms. “Oh, so _your_ bird can be a lord but _mine_ can’t be a lady?” 

“That-” You glance over your shoulder at Sunny who almost looks to be glaring at the Shield and his chocobo. Somehow, you get the distinct feeling that Gladiolus is lucky that Sunny is penned up. “Okay. Fair enough.”


	24. Gladiolus: Real Friends pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just some multi-part nonsense for Gladio’s route. It's basically an excuse to have Iris more involved. For this little story, we’re seeing you, the reader, in Lestallum. The next part will have more Gladiolus in it.
> 
> **Warnings:** Intense Tense Flippage, Language, Overbearing Iris, Mostly Iris-Centric, Some Mentioning of Clarus, Bad Nicknames, Iris is Gonna Teach You a Thing, One Painfully Oblivious Mage, OOC Galore

**Real Friends pt.1**

There’s something odd about the Amicitias. They’ve this warm quality to them that you’re unaccustomed to.

In truth, the Amicitias might actually be the polar opposites of the Iovitas despite being sworn to protect the same family line and being thoroughly Lucian. Where your family has always been rather cold and detached, mysterious and strange, the Amicitias are  _friendly_. Such an odd thing that an entire family can be welcoming like that. It makes you gently gibe Gladiolus, telling him he must’ve been adopted.

Of course he doesn’t find  _that_  funny. He simply stares you down with those golden-brown eyes and you want to fade into oblivion with a cringe.

It’s just that… The thing is… Iris takes you  _completely_  by surprise in Lestallum. Sure, you’d heard tales of her bubbly personality and her brother is her biggest champion, but you didn’t quite expect her to take to you so quickly. It’s unusual. Typically, people don’t really like you all that much when they first meet you. Not that you aren’t likable! It’s just that that Iovita coldness can be a bit off-putting. Plus, upon first meeting, you tend to put on airs as per your Spire upbringing,  _so…_

You’ve no idea the amount of talking up both Prompto and Gladiolus did on your behalf. Honestly, Gladio wasn’t even doing it on purpose but Prom’s always been a bit of a braggart where his friends are concerned. It would’ve been weird if Prompto Argentum  _didn’t_  sing your praises. Hell, the singing of Noctis’ praises was how the blond ended up with Iris Amicitia’s phone number in the first place (a development that had earned him a stink-eye from the older sibling).

So, while Prom’s effusing of your better qualities was pretty much a given, Iris’ little radar pinged when Gladdy started mirroring the sharpshooter in that respect. ‘Cause her big brother? His praise must be  _earned_. Sure, being the baby sister means Iris doesn’t have to do much to earn a pat on the head, but she  _knows_  her brother and she’s seen this pattern of behavior before. Gladiolus Amicitia is a dork when in love and right now he’s the dorkiest Iris has ever seen him.

It started with one simple, totally innocuous text to say that there’d been a hiccup with collecting Prince Noctis’ arcane advisor but that everything was okay.

That’d raised eyebrows. Iris swears their father almost had a stroke when Gladdy stoically informed them- over the phone and on speaker- that they ran you over outside of Hammerhead. Her horrified gasp didn’t do anything for Clarus’ sudden tension headache. The King’s Shield had needed to sit down, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “Does His Majesty know?” was all he’d asked and Gladdy had informed him that, yes, His Majesty and the Arch-Mage had been told.

Of course Iris asked for updates about you after that. Of course! And maybe she’s to blame for Gladiolus getting feelings for you? She hopes so. Maybe if it hadn’t have been for her, he wouldn’t have felt the need to keep such a close eye on you…? Yes and no. Because although Gladiolus felt a certain amount of pressure to be aware of your presence so he could report back to Iris accurately when asked, you were already winning him over with your pouts and book hoarding.

For Gladio, it was subtle things that he would notice about you: The faces you’d make at someone’s back if they said something unintentionally catty, the way you were always straightening that ugly sweater about your frame like someone was about to take your photo, and the way you  _always_  walked like you were in court even if you were just entering a damn roadside diner. His gaze began to linger. A smile somehow found its way on his face each time.

This translated to his texts where Iris “Expert on Verbiage” Amicitia’s keen little eyes picked up on it almost immediately. A wide, excited grin split her lips.

Here was her big brother casually using words like “cute” and “amazing” to describe his fellow advisor. What Iris really loved was getting pictures of you and him posing together at some strange locales, his arm slung about your shoulders and you subtly leaning into him. At one point, she edited one of the pictures to have hearts between the two of you and stopped herself just shy of actually sending the damned thing to Gladio, thinking better of it.

She knew it was tentative. Gladdy has remarkably thin skin sometimes and the teasing of burgeoning crushes isn’t something he takes too kindly to, even if he  _is_  one of the most suave and confident men on the planet. So, reasonably, Iris didn’t get too far ahead of herself even though she probably planned some parts of the “inevitable” Amicitia-Iovita wedding in her head and Clarus would sometimes find her holding her face, smiling and giggling to herself.

She’s not weird, okay! Some of those texts Gladdy sent to her definitely seemed like love! And she just wants her brother to be happy. Iris has been there for the other relationships, after all. She’s seen the aftermath of heartbreak and helped clean up in its wake. She’s suffered with her brother through the disappointments and the anger, even though he reasonably shielded her from the flings. Iris just thinks that this new thing with you? Whatever it is? It might be different.

You both have an understanding that not a lot of people could even come close to grasping. Your duty to Noctis is paramount and, in Gladiolus’ case, that can  _easily_  get in the way of romantic relationships. Iris believes that since you and Gladdy are in the same boat, that might make it easier for you two to understand each other in ways that a regular citizen might not. Even though their friendship got off to a rocky start, Iris knows that Gladiolus would do anything for Noct. To some people, that’s odd.

But not to you.

She’d gotten a strange call late one night. Gladiolus just wanted to tell her how much he loved and appreciated her. In the wake of their father’s death, it wasn’t too bizarre a sentiment to suddenly spring onto her but… Iris had a feeling that it was coming from somewhere else. She was right, of course. You’d almost died. Rather, you  _had_  died and Gladiolus had to practically drag you back into the realm of the living. Iris’ eyes stung when she heard what had happened- what you’d done for Noct.

In Iris Amicitia’s eyes, you almost have some sort of saintly status. For her, you all but walk with god rays around you.

This background, this  _context_ , is something you don’t have when you first meet her in Lestallum. That context is severely lacking because not once did you ever think that Gladiolus would mention you to his sister. Well, mention you  _outside of_  your status as a traveling companion and arcane advisor/future Arch-Mage once you’re officially brought into the fold with some ridiculous ceremony involving ring kissing. So you’re totally flabbergasted when her arm is hooked through yours and you’re dragged away.

“Wh-What’s going on?” You sputter, staring in fascinated horror at the back of the brunette’s head as you’re pulled through Lestallum’s streets.

You can’t help but privately marvel, “ _Holy shit! She’s strong!_ ”

Absolutely nobody protests your sudden and very public abduction. One moment you’re sitting at the fountain outside of the hotel, chatting politely with Iggy and Gladiolus while Noct was getting a tour of the city from Iris, and the next moment… Well, you’re pretty sure you have a lung full of coffee right now and the fountain probably has some in it, too. The two of you pass by Prompto who is taking photos of the market. Blue eyes shoot you a knowing look. You wish you “knew” too.

You’re vaguely aware that you’re being spirited away to a café, which is fine by you since you didn’t exactly get to finish your coffee…

Eager brown eyes glance at you from over the girl’s shoulder. “I just want to spend some time with you, (y/n).” Suddenly, she stops. You follow suit, straightening your sweater before glancing up to find Iris’ cheeks have taken on a pink hue. “I’m so sorry! I forgot to ask if you wanted to come with me.” Those big brown eyes squeeze shut a moment as she shakes her head at herself. “I just got overly excited. It’s been such a long time since Gladdy… made a new friend.”

The way she says that last bit? A panicked halt in speech followed by what can only be described as word-vomit? You’re squinting. That only makes color rise to her cheeks in earnest. You’re a little intimidating, Iris must admit, but there’s a soft quality to you that keeps you from being as unsettling as Arch-Mage Decima. Not to say she thinks your mother was mean! It’s just… a  _trait_  that the Iovitas have been known to have and that she had overheard her father warning Gladdy about.

However, you don’t seem nearly as unfeeling as warned. From what she personally observed in the short time she met you before she carted Noct away, you’re rather impish. She’d caught you poking your finger into Prompto’s side when he bluntly asked Ignis if he “had to” hang out at the hotel to wait for Noctis, clearly not wanting to be cooped up but also lacking some tact in your eyes. It’s refreshing.  _You’re_  refreshing. Iris just hopes she didn’t get too far ahead of herself and totally stick her foot in it.

In agonizing silence, she waits for your response. Sensing her tension (Which you can’t accurately pinpoint the source of… Perhaps her social faux pas?) you gently put your hand on the back of her arm and guide her to an empty table in front of a café. The establishment is busy with a single waiter frantically puttering back and forth between tables and the kitchen, so you two are in no danger of being interrupted any time soon. You wait for Iris to sit before taking your seat.

“Gladiolus makes friends everywhere he goes.”

Oh, thank the gods! Iris leaps at the easy out you just afforded her. “Acquaintances, maybe. But not friends.” A winning smile is tossed your way. “You’re the first  _real_  friends he’s made in a while.”

A ponderous expression crosses your features and the young Amicitia blinks. “I didn’t know Gladiolus considered me a friend.”

One moment. Iris just needs  _one moment_  to gather her composure because she almost yells, “Are you kidding me?!” Staring pointedly at you, she wonders how damn oblivious someone can be. Are you joking? You have to be joking. ‘Cause she knows her sometimes obnoxious big brother well enough to know that he’s hardly discreet with his affections. And she’s right. Gladio hasn’t been subtle  _at all_  with you. He’s a terrible flirt but you assume that that’s just how he is. Same as you.

Sexual innuendo and suggestive winks are met with a dead-eyed stare from you or they’re returned if his teasing doesn’t come at your expense (‘cause the Shield’s comedic timing can leave  _a lot_  to be desired; teasing you after you’ve got egg on your face or something equally inopportune). Other than that? You’ve always worked under the assumption that Gladiolus Amicitia’s feelings toward you are rather lukewarm. Especially in comparison to Prompto “Ass Pat” Argentum.

Gladio is just friendly, right? Everyone in Noct’s immediate circle is. Even Ignis “Here’s Some Hot Chocolate ‘Cause that Flan Owned Your Ass” Scientia… Okay, these nicknames are getting out of hand.

“I think it’s more than that,” Iris finds herself saying despite everything in her that tells her to reel it in. Those Amicitias sure are impatient.

You cock your head. Damn. That’s a cute gesture. Now Iris is totally sure that she didn’t read her brother’s texts wrong. “Oh?” You hum to yourself, fingertips absent-mindedly ghosting over your chin. “Well, that’s nice. Prompto also considers me his best friend, or so he says.”

She might strangle you.

Luckily for you, the waiter comes by and you order coffee while Iris asks for a smoothie. This momentary distraction cools her head a bit. Seriously, she thinks you’re screwing with her and she doesn’t appreciate it. If you truly think that her brother just considers you a best friend or a good friend, you must be crazy. In truth, she doesn’t know how meek Gladiolus can be with you. ‘Cause sometimes you make him doubt your interest.

Remarkably blasé, you could crumble the confidence of anyone. More a defense mechanism than anything, it’s also just what you consider a good rule to live by: Don’t assume someone else’s interest. And Gladio has yet to make a definite move on you, so you’ll politely maintain professional boundaries despite the fact that you two slept together. _Literally_  slept. After he pulled you out of a ditch, you thought you might sleep soundly at the camp. Nope. Not with his arms around you.

That damning memory is shaken from your head; an intrusive thing that’s crept up on you almost every other hour since it happened. You can’t look at Gladiolus or even  _hear about him_  without being reminded of that night. Keen brown eyes notice the flush to your cheeks and the way your fingers idly drum against the metal table. The afternoon sun beats down on you both, Lestallum’s infamous heat already turning your sweater into a nuisance. It doesn’t fully account for your warmth.

The waiter brings your beverages, effectively snapping you out of a reverie that makes your blood run hot. Thank the Six for  _that_. You’re sitting across from Gladiolus’ sister, after all!

“So, how do you like traveling with my brother?” Iris asks, glossing over your previous naïve response, swirling the pink slush in her cup with a straw. Strawberry seeds are mixed throughout the slush. She’s relieved that they actually used real fruit at this café and not powder. Though she doesn’t want to come across as uptight around you in the slightest, she just… really  _hates_  powdered smoothies.

“I like him- I mean,  _it_!” You want to throw your hot coffee into your own face. ‘Cause that wasn’t even some damning comment until  _you_  made it into one with your awkwardness. Why’d you have to shout?  _Why_?!

The sneaky smirk that twists the girl’s lips? Yeah. You miss it because you’re too busy gazing into the black depths of your cup of coffee, longing for the sweet embrace of death. The younger Amicitia delicately clears her throat, expression haughty and superior like the cat that got the canary. “Oh? I know he likes traveling with you, too. So that’s really good to hear. Gladdy  _really_  likes spending time with you. He told me  _a lot_  about you.”

There’s another thing about the Amicitias. It’s perhaps one of a few ways in which they’re similar to the Iovitas. They’re artful talkers. That Iris is more a word wizard than you and she’s five years your junior. It comes from a lifetime of needing to be subtle and inoffensive with her manipulation. Pouting and holding one’s breath can only get one so far in life, she found. And being a proper lady (and possibly wanting to impress a certain prince) required her to drop the childish card from her deck altogether.

It’s honeyed words that you detect being poured into your ear. A familiar softness to disguise an ulterior motive that you aren’t quite sure the intent of- but you’re certain the nature is benign since you’re sensitive to those of a malicious nature; those always being met with alarm bells in your head. To hear such a tone, heavy with loaded meaning, piques your interest. Leaning back in your chair, you give Iris Amicitia an appreciative look. Coffee is sipped.

“ _This is interesting_ ,” you think to yourself.

A smile curls your lips. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh.” Iris sips her smoothie, eyes upturned to you. So, you’re playing ball? You’re finally picking up what she’s putting down? Thank the gods for  _that_. It’s this day that it’s discovered that Iris Amicitia might have the rare talent of getting (y/n) Iovita to accurately read social cues that aren’t meant to harm. And she’s more than happy to teach the Arch-Mage a thing or two if it means her brother will end up happy. She returns your smile and wonders, “Do you wanna know what he’s said about you?”

“That depends. Is it bad?”

She laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. “ _No_. It’s all good things, I promise.”

“Okay, then. Getting the dish from the sweet younger sister?” Expression relaxes further, coffee cup cradled casually in the palms of your hands. Those wicked eyes of yours flash in tandem with the smirk you flash her. “I’m down.”

Will she ever stop blushing at the casual compliments you dole out like it’s nothing? Prompto had warned her about that. Called you a flirt and a charmer. When she’d asked Gladdy to corroborate, he’d confirmed this information a bit stiffly. That made Iris roll her eyes. ‘Cause she knows for a  _fact_  that he flirts a lot and he wants to get his feelings hurt that you do the same? For once, she wasn’t in her big brother’s corner in that regard. Iris hates double standards more than she hates powdered smoothies.

“I will if you pay for my smoothie,” she teases.

Confusion puckers your brow. “Um… I already was,” you admit, making her blush once more. “The least I can do is treat my friend’s sister upon first meeting her. Is that all that you’d like to request?”

“You’re so formal,” Iris chuckles mostly to herself, quickly realizing what it is about you that drew Gladiolus in. Gods, you’re so  _nerdy_. “And yes. I wasn’t even really serious about buying my smoothie.  _I_ brought  _you_  out here, after all.”

“Nah. It’s my treat,” you insist and although Iris had already decided that she liked you based on Gladiolus’ litany of texts and chats about you, she decides as much again. And it’s not because she’s getting a free drink out of you. It’s your whole demeanor. Not even one hour with you and she knows that cold, professional persona of yours is just a front. The real (y/n) is surprisingly easy-going and dorky, kind-hearted but still shrewd. Iris likes you a lot. And she’d like you more if you dated her brother.

“Okay, then,” the more devious of the Amicitia siblings drawls, straightening her posture with a devilish glint in her kind brown eyes, “let’s see…”

By the time Iris is finished giving you the dirty details of  _everything_  Gladiolus has said about you, your face is on fire. Gone is your air of flippancy, replaced with confusion and awe. Gladiolus thinks you’re  _cute_? That sorta jabs at you. You’re not  _cute_! You’re akin to a finely tuned weapon, trained specifically for the purpose of educating and protecting the future king of Lucis! But it  _kinda_  makes you feel all warm and weird inside to know that Gladio thinks you’re cute…

Of course the man thinks you’re  _far more_  than cute, but those are things that he wouldn’t tell his dear baby sister. However, the photos are shown off all the same and Iris bites her lip and points out with each one, “You two look really cute together. Oh! You see how he put his arm around you? That’s so  _sweet_.” Coffee has gone cold with neglect. The girl’s unsubtle hints definitely aren’t going over your head. Oh, it’s so obvious to you.

Iris Amicitia is trying to force you on her brother.


	25. Aubergine pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs some time during ch.10 of the main story where y'all are going to Lestallum. In fact, the majority of the chapters for this series (which centers around Ardyn) sort of happens "in limbo" during that time period because it sheds light on events from your past that will impact the future. Obviously, as I hinted at it, Ardyn plays a significant role in your life.
> 
> **Warnings:** Intense Tense Flippage, Hints at Past Abuse, One Certain Redhead

** 01\. Aubergine  **

No one would tell you, but there were a few reasons why some of the magisters (the ones who _didn’t_ hate your family) couldn’t stomach being around you. When you were a child, everyone thought you were adorable. You were a darling little thing with round cheeks and large eyes. But you went from cute to creepy overnight. 

When you were a toddler, things got a little weird. You’d stare off at _nothing_ , eyes intent as if seeing _something_. When you could talk you’d hold conversations with these “nothings” and immediately pretend to be doing something else when someone would walk in. You have no memory of this. Nothing aside from your mother and Drusa occasionally referencing an imaginary friend you supposedly had. One time, irritated, you told your mother she was lying. 

Decima had quickly replied that _every_ Iovita child has an “imaginary friend.” She’d stressed the words in the presence of others, silver eyes hardening on you. You should’ve asked her about it when you got her alone. You never did. 

And that transition into toddlerhood set the tone for how the adults would handle you. They didn’t make eye contact, were frugal with their words, or, in the case of the purists, spoke down to you to the point that you no longer bothered with trying to engage them.  You'd just turned eight when you got your first outside visitor. A visitor especially for you. At that point in your life, with your mother being reclusive and your only other family dead, you were terribly lonely. This new visitor was greatly welcomed. 

“Call me Uncle Ary,” he’d said when he circumvented your mother to introduce himself personally. The strange red-violet hair that framed his face almost made you think he was _actually_ your uncle. Your mother quickly remedied that. 

“You aren’t their uncle, Ar-”  


“Come now, Decima. Don’t deny little (y/n) here an uncle.” And so he was Uncle Ary. 

Before Ary, you'd never spoken to adults who weren't authority or pseudo-authority figures. He wasn't so special that you could speak freely with him like you did with your mother and Drusa. But he was different. And different was what you were desperately hoping for in a sea of people who treated you like a pariah. He didn't pressure you to speak- comfortable filling the silence with lighthearted chatter, comfortable letting the silence linger. 

"There's no need to be embarrassed by silence," he'd said one day. He didn't follow up with anything else.  He let you speak in your own time, always listening attentively, hanging off of your words like each one was important. He never asked about your studies. That's what really made him different. He asked about your interests.  "What do you like? What do you do? No, dear, not classwork. What do you _do_?" 

You told him he would have liked your aunt. He'd smiled easily enough. It was a painted on smile. You'd seen its kind all over the Spire. He never wanted to talk about your family. Never  wanted to talk about _his_ , either. 

He'd bring you things from all over the world. An ancient book in a language that had died out long ago, a luminous scale from a dragon, and a silly little plastic cactuar charm from a gas station down the road. You'd immediately put the latter on your phone. But the most important routine that you two had was the food that he brought. Always something new, always broadening your palate. Food was a bridge between you two. He'd started out on your first meeting (under your mother's severe gaze) by offering you a macaron the color of an eggplant. 

"Aubergine," he'd said loftily, chuckled not unkindly when you struggled to mimic him.  He’d offered the small thing like he was offering you the world. You’d taken it hesitantly from him after glancing to your mother for approval. Though she looked tense, she pursed her lips and nodded her head curtly. You eagerly took the sweet. It tasted of berries and chocolate. 

Each time he would visit, Ary would nearly kick down your door, plastic bags on his arms, filled with takeaway or extravagant containers stacked like leaning towers, and he’d announce, "Food man!" 

"The world's unsung hero," you'd quip once you’d grown accustomed to him. And something would change in his eyes but he was always quick to snuff it out, laugh it off. 

But not everything was sunny. Your bizarre friend had a cruel streak, a bitterness that would come out to bite you if you treaded too close to some unknown, unseen wound. It would bite hard enough to draw blood sometimes. Uncle Ary was your first experience with someone who hid their cruelty well- you pretty much owe a lot of your perception of subtle body and facial cues to him. 

He wore a serene mask, amber eyes flashing like lightning before the thunderous boom of his insults. When his ire was directed toward the magisters, you didn’t much mind it. You could ignore it then. But when it was directed toward you? That was a different story entirely.  Because he had started off very friendly- the first adult who didn’t treat you like a child or condescend to you. But every now and then you would get a flicker of that bitterness. It seemed a difficult thing for him to hide sometimes. You’d say something innocuous (or what _you_ thought was innocuous) and he’d bite. 

“I read about my great great grandmother the other day. Aela made banishing seem so easy. She was _amazing_ at it.” 

“Yes, so amazing, that Aela. She banished daemons as easily as she banished her successors to the Spire.” 

“How do you mean, Ary?” 

“Dear (y/n),” he’d chortled and you saw the flash, knew what was coming, “you’re nothing more than a captive animal. Look around you.” He waved his arm about your room loftily, to the thin windows, to the ground so far below, and the gates and guards you knew to be beyond the trees. 

“Ary...” 

“You’re no fool. You know those guards aren’t for keeping people out, rather...” he trailed off, lips quirked into an amused smirk, “they’re for keeping _you_ in before you’re sent off to the prince like a head of cattle. One more Iovita for the chopping block.” 

Funny that the thing you took from that conversation was your confinement. He was the one to  open your eyes to the true nature of your housing. You became moody shortly after. Perhaps he was the catalyst to you growing distant from your mother. But the mood swings would abate when the food man came around. Because he always had a special treat for you. Sugared pastries and sugared words. Yet you always prepared yourself for the bite. 

Then came the tonal shift- the great parting of ways. 

He had paid you sporadic visits over the course of seven years. Sometimes the time between visits took so long that you thought he wasn’t coming back. But one day, you had asked after seven years of pleasant visits: "Why do you visit me?" Because he only visited _you_. He wouldn’t give the other mages even a passing glance and they all gave him a wide berth in the halls- another reason why you enjoyed his company. But this time you two were out in the greenhouse with no one for him to intimidate. 

It was humid in that house of glass, your fingers buried deep in damp soil as you readied a pot for pepper plants. Ary leaned against the wall beside the doorway, watching you intently though he kept his face and his posture casual. He cocked his head and replied easily, "You're my friend, of course. Friends visit each other. Especially when one friend can't go outside." 

"I _can_ go outside."  


"Yes,” he murmured, amber eyes looking around. “You go outside but you don't _go outside_." 

You chose to ignore his insult and countered him with another question, "How about before? We weren't friends before." 

He mulled over his response that time, crossed his arms over his chest. A playful smile pulled up the corners of his mouth and he admitted, "Why, I heard you were lonely." 

"Who said that?" You laughed as you carefully placed the seeds in the soil before covering them up. 

"A little birdie told me."  


After you shot an unamused frown his way, you asked, "Does the bird have a name?" 

"You met the bird once." His tone shifted, you realized. His voice sounded deeper, a tad ominous. You took your time taking off your gloves, dusted off your hands on your pants. The sunlight filtered in through the filmy glass, pale yellow streams dancing along sprouts and fully-blossomed plants. 

"A former student?" You finally guessed, turning to face him head on. 

Ary wagged his finger at you and pursed his lips. "Try again."  


"No magisters, obviously. You don't talk to any of them," you murmured. 

"Mmhm." 

After a moment of coming up empty, you finally begged, "Can I have a hint?" 

"They said you two shared a laugh," he said slowly, smile growing. 

"Hm..." A sad testament to your lack of friends is that you'd never shared a laugh with anyone outside of characters on a screen. So, admittedly, you had no idea who he could be talking about. 

He continued without being asked, "They found you to be highly skilled for your age. They were impressed with what you had done and wanted me to meet you." He watched you intently then, face an emotionless mask. All remained silent for a minute that dragged on for an age. "Here's another hint: You owe them a debt. Nine years." 

Your blood turned to ice. The walls of the greenhouse seemed to close in on you as you were taken back to that time eight years ago. Cold lips pressed on the back of your neck and you spun around wildly, stumbling back and away from your assailant. No one was there. 

When you turned around to confront Uncle Ary, you found that he was gone. You were alone in the greenhouse. It was the last time he visited. A mercy. Because you didn't want to see him again after that. The memory was buried again for years, left to languish in the furthest corner of your mind until it sprang out to feast upon your insecurities and fear. It was dusted off and shaken up by your brief dance with death. 

And had you not recalled the terrible thing you'd done before, you surely would have the second you see the food man in Lestallum where he pretends not to know you as he speaks to Noct. Ears stop working for the duration of the conversation. They’re plugged with cotton. Ice replaces the blood in your veins. You want to _run_... But running will make the others ask questions. You feel like running will somehow confirm your guilt to people who have no idea about what you did. 

“Hey, you okay?” Gladio suddenly rumbles, bumping you with his elbow and making you jump nearly a foot in the air. 

“Ah! And who do we have here? Hello! I couldn’t see you behind that great wall of a man,” Ary teases. Those amber eyes dance over you. You see beyond the serene mask where the lightning flickers. He introduces himself to you with a lofty bow, taking off his hat, “Ardyn Izunia.” 

You stare at him a moment, fifteen again with the world falling out from under you- if you drop your guard you can almost feel those dry, scaly lips pressed to the back of your neck. In your fear, you find yourself complicit in the deception, putting on your mask as you formally introduce yourself, “(y/n) Iovita. A pleasure.” 

The lightning flashes. “Indeed.” 

You know the thunder will come another day. 

When you return to the hotel with the others, quiet and moody with your secrets held close to your chest, Prompto points something out on the coffee table: a covered silver dish with a small, pristine white card placed in front of it. “Room service?” Gladio asks, though he obviously doesn’t think that’s the case. 

Noct picks up the card and reads aloud, "A treat for a captive animal – Love, Food Man." He flicks the card around to see if there’s anything on the back. “Huh. That’s a dumb name.” 

As Noct is reading, Ignis lifts the cover to reveal nine small circular cookies. One elegant eyebrow quirks as he observes, “Macarons.” 

"They're so purple," Prom marvels, looking like he wants nothing more than to swipe one off of the platter. 

"Hm," Ignis frowns, taps his chin, “not quite purple, more like-” 

"Aubergine," you breathe. 


	26. Aubergine pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You’ve got a secret and your dear Uncle Ary knows it. Who better to share a dark past with? This has elements that occur both before and during ch.11 of the main fic, so I posted it beforehand.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Most Awkward Car Ride in the World, Awful AU, Bad Characterization, Bad Everything, Let’s Play with Fire

** 02\. Strangers  **

The thunder is coming. You know it. You knew it the second you pretended that you and Ardyn were nothing more than strangers. It seemed a silly thing in the moment. Why bother lying? Why _not_ tell the others that the redhead was an old friend? What real risk was there that Ardyn would say anything about the daemon? And how could he _prove it_ if he had? It would’ve been his word against yours. And the guys would have leapt to your side without another thought. 

But fear is a funny thing. It turns people into fools. Fools who only think of themselves. 

Self-preservation was on your mind- the desire to preserve the image of yourself as the knowledgable mage, moral about magic, wise and careful. You didn’t want the others to know what you had done. Yes, you were a child when it happened. But it exemplified one dark truth: the _danger_ of your magic. If an act of thoughtlessness could have you summoning a powerful daemon... then _what else_ could happen? You didn’t want the guys to think like that. You didn’t want them to think of _you_ like that. 

So, you lied to hide your shame. In a drunken state, in a childish game of 20 questions, you had almost shown your hand. You had almost revealed that you sought out another being to give you power. No, you hadn’t prayed to Ramuh. You had summoned something that your ancestors had banished long ago. And it was all for a _toad_. 

The anticipation of thunder after the lightning has struck cools your anticipation over the trip to the Disc of Cauthess. 

When you heard that you were all going to see the Archaean, you’d nearly trembled with barely contained excitement. Half of the staff at the Spire worshipped the Titan, so it rubbed off on you a bit. Ramuh is still your family’s god but the idea of seeing the Archaean up close made you jittery and restless. Until you found out how you were getting there. The guys watch on as you stare Ardyn down. The redhead looks tickled to death when he spots your chocobo-yellow scooter, barely chuckling out, "Oh, _no_ , that little contraption simply won't do." 

"What do you mean, Mr. Izunia?" You ask coolly, folding your arms across your chest. You’re trying to keep a level head but Lestallum’s heat is only serving to ramp up your anxiety. Especially since you can feel four pairs of curious eyes on you. Though, it’s not exactly _you_ that the guys are suspicious of. They’re wondering why the man who only greeted you one time just  the other day is now singling you out with a strange familiarity. And they’re wondering why you seem like a wild animal that’s been backed into a corner despite your collected exterior. 

Ardyn gives you a sharp look and explains, "We're going to traverse some rough roads. And seeing as how the Regalia is limited on space-" 

Noct casts you a sideways glance before informing the redhead, "We've all been in the Regalia before. It's a squeeze but it's doable." 

"Come now,” Ardyn shakes his head. “With that _staff_ , too? I see no reason that we can't all be comfortable on this trip." 

Before anyone can further object, further test the limits of Ardyn’s patience, you agree. "Okay." You give him a contrived smile. "I'll ride with you, if you'll be so kind as to have me." 

He grins, golden eyes flashing. "It would be my pleasure." 

It’s no one’s pleasure.  The drive to Coernix Station in Cauthess is mostly quiet. You opt to look out at the trees and plains that go by, watching all manner of creatures graze and frolic. At some point, Ardyn turns on the radio and classical music drifts softly from the speakers. It hasn’t even been five minutes when you decide to break the silence. And Ardyn was apparently waiting for you to make the first move all the while, just like before. 

"Why did you pretend not to know me?" Your tone is surprisingly flat. You’d meant to sound a bit more accusatory but your words lack the appropriate bite. 

"Why did _you_ play along?" He keeps his eyes on the road, ever the careful driver, but a wicked smirk twists his lips. "Not that I'm scolding you, of course. I was pleasantly surprised that my favorite mage remembered how to wear their mask after all these years. How I’ve missed our games." 

Eyes glance at the Regalia in the side mirror, where you can spot everyone looking like they’re at a funeral. Mouths move but you can’t read lips. Returning your attention to Ardyn, you query, "What are you plotting?" 

" _Plotting_? You make me out to be some lowly conniver. Quite frankly, my dear, I'm insulted." 

"Hmph. Not as insulted as I was when I discovered you were never my friend," you snap, the first  sign of any emotion. 

"Is that why you still have the charm on your phone? To remember how I was _never_ your friend? Seems an odd way to go about forgetting me." He drums his fingers along the steering wheel. "Then again, you're a master at making yourself forget. So, you very well may have forgotten your dear Uncle Ary." 

He has you there. Maybe someone clever or some objective party could tell you why, after all these years, you kept not only the cactuar charm but every little trinket the man ever gave you. His memory was compartmentalized, tucked away, and yet he remained everywhere. Books on a shelf, tokens and figurines on your desk, words of wisdom...  Though, those words wouldn’t be considered “sound advice” by most people. Teaching a child how to lie effectively, how to spot someone’s shame, their fear, and their hurt to use against them? Your mother would have been horrified if she could pry herself away from her work long enough to know what the serpent was hissing in your ear. What he was grooming you to be. 

“And may I point out how scandalized I am right now, (y/n)? _Of course_ I was your friend. I visited for years, did I not?” 

" _You_ stopped visiting," you point out. “I’m not the one who severed ties.”  Though you _were_ relieved when it happened. He’s the only other person in the world who knows your secret. If he had continued his visits, you would have been living in fear that he might “accidentally” let it slip to your mother. Because you knew and you _still know_ that Ardyn’s cruelty is the pernicious sort. The kind that sneaks up on you if you aren’t careful. The kind that can strike and kill as quickly as a venomous snake hidden in the grass. 

"I heard you were afraid of me and didn't want to see me anymore." He pouts his bottom lip out and narrows his golden eyes at you. "Tell me it wasn't true. Was I bad?" 

You sigh and look away. “Who told you that?” Tongue darts out to wet your suddenly dry lips and you steel yourself before asking, “The little birdie?” 

“Yes,” he drawls, sounding a bit chafed, to your surprise. “The little _intrusive_ birdie.” 

The desire to continue down this rabbit hole is stifled when you steal a glance to find him wearing an emotionless mask. His mouth is a fine line, amber eyes unblinking. You’ve learned in your day not to chase those conversations when he looks like this. Unless, of course, you’re a glutton for punishment. “You _were_ my friend,” you finally say, expertly redirecting to a previous path in the conversation. 

“ _Were_? Past tense hurts me. You know this.” His face is inquisitive now. You’re safe. 

You huff a laugh to take the edge off but point out soberly, “You were the only friend I had who came to me willingly, of his own volition. Or so I thought. You were the only one whose affections couldn't be easily pinned on proximity, or fear of a job, or want of a better grade.” 

You have all of his attention now. Eyebrows rise and rise, a hint of a smile on his lips at hearing how _important_ he was to you. “Even Dr. Alomar? What a cruel assessment, my dear,” he pretends to scold, secretly pleased. 

"Drusa... I know that we never would've become friends if my mother didn't force me on her first. She was-" afraid of you before she got to know you, just like all the others, you must painfully admit, "-too busy to pay special attention to any one student. I didn't win her over on my own." 

"And you thought you won me over?"  


You roll your eyes and cross your legs, the embodiment of casual ease. "Foolish child that I was.  _Of course_ you would have an ulterior motive."  


"Oh? What _is_ that ulterior motive?" Ardyn’s voice has taken on an edge that’s as hard and sharp  as a blade. 

"I wonder..." You cut your eyes to him, not bothering with the composed mask now that it's just the two of you. "Give me a hint," you demand. 

"For old times' sake?" He chortles, "Why don't you take a _guess_ first? That's how the game is played, after all." 

"It has something to do with your daemon." 

" _My_ daemon? Sweet (y/n), if one thing could never be said of you it's that you're a fool, so don’t pretend to be one now. That daemon is _yours_ \- lurking in the shadow at your back, waiting, watching... _protecting_ , or as protective as a parasite can be when it fears its life source is about to be taken away." His admission gives you pause, piques your morbid curiosity, but if you drive the conversation down this road there will be no turning back. You have to keep playing the guessing game. There are rules that have to be followed. 

"Your interference has something to do with Prince Noctis, then,” you announce confidently. “I saw how you looked at him- like how a coeurl watches a dualhorn calf. And how you spoke about him when we'd spend time together. Like you had poison on your tongue." 

"Waxing poetic, are we? I'll give you that one, clever mage," Ardyn admits with a lazy shrug, eyes hooded and still on the road. 

"So, you only came to me because of my connection to the prince," you accuse, jaw tightening as you wonder what his plan is. 

"The _prince_? You keep saying that, dear, but he's a prince without a kingdom. And what do we call those?" 

Nose in the air, you hiss, "He's _my_ prince, kingdom or no. He'll _always_ be my prince and one day he'll be my king." 

Lightning flashes at you from the driver’s seat. "You _pitiful_ Iovitas. Blindly loyal until the very end. At what age does the indoctrination begin, I wonder? I was always curious about how livestock are raised." 

You roll your eyes. “I see you still think you’re funny. Some things never change.” 

He grins. “I see you’re still thin-skinned, my captive animal. But the truth, as they say, _hurts_.”  It goes quiet. The conversation is over once you two start to get your claws into each other. The playful swipes threaten to boil over into something more intense. And arguing with Ardyn never ceases to get your fight-or-flight response going off the charts.  "Trust is a fragile thing, isn't it?" Ardyn suddenly asks. 

You purse your lips and give him an accusatory look. "Indeed." 

"You should remember that around your little friends when you speak my name like it’s foreign on your tongue." Heart leaps into your throat. You keep your gaze on the scenery, pretending to be unaffected and disinterested. There's a long pause. "Did you enjoy the macarons?” Ardyn asks lightly, smiling like he didn’t just threaten you, shooting you a playful look. “I would have _killed_ to see your face light up at the taste again." 

"I threw them out,” you reply shortly, telling the truth. 

He scoffs indignantly, sounding genuinely offended, "What a wasteful little mage you are." 

“Your ‘joke’ was a little too on the nose for my liking. You’re more clever than that.” You cast him a sidelong glance. “Try again, _Ary_.”


	27. Aubergine pt.3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your first encounter with Lunafreya (which I'd hinted at in the main story) is sandwiched in here. Sorry, but there’s a reason for it. Also, super sorry for this vague, crappy nonsense. Still, hope you find some way to enjoy it lmao!
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Mild Angst, Mega AU, What’s a Timeline?, Ardyn, Yes Ardyn is a Warning, Forced Foreshadowing, Ardyn Buys Breakfast, You Make Luna Sad, But it’s Not Your Fault

** 03\. All in the Eyes  **

“What am I doing?” 

You thought it so many times on the drive here and now you can finally say it aloud. The mirror in the diner’s restroom is dirty with a patchwork of oily fingerprints and smudges. There’s a streak across it- it cuts right down the middle of your face- where someone pumped soap on a paper towel and tried to wipe down the glass without enough water. 

Fluorescent lights hum up above. If you keep your eyes open and unblinking, gaze trained on the stark white of the wall beside the mirror for long enough, you can see that the lights are quickly flickering. You inhale deeply through your nose and regret it: Traces of bleach and urine, something floral and sugary that’s forever ruined for you. 

Outside the restroom, sitting patiently in a booth with peeling red leather seats, Ardyn waits. Golden eyes examine the caramel stains on the porcelain. Honestly, he’s surprised that they have porcelain cups here. Honestly, he’s not surprised in the slightest that they fail so miserably to maintain them here. 

The redhead glances at the phone that sits on the table. The sleek black case almost looks sticky to the touch with that hi-gloss shine and the cactuar charm looks garish in comparison. There’s a bit of green paint that’s chipped from the cactuar’s right leg, exposing white plastic. Screen flashes to life with a text. He’s curious. But he knows you left your phone behind for a reason. You never do anything without a reason. 

Just in time, just before he can second-guess if this is some test or not, you exit the restroom. Eyes immediately fly to the phone and he smirks. It’s untouched, exactly where you left it- tauntingly screen-up for him to see everyone vying for your attention. Such an in-demand mage, surrounded by friends who love them. He stands and waits before sitting back in the booth at the same time as you. An old habit from when you two would sit together in the Spire. An old habit that you had easily fallen back into at the caravan. 

Ardyn had come over to sit and chat, and you had stood up and sat back down in tandem with him. He had been so pleased that you remembered that little show of respect, that little show of camaraderie. You had died on the inside because everyone went quiet and stared. Old habits certainly die hard. 

A quick glance at the stained porcelain and that dip in the restroom tell you all you need to know  about the quality of the diner. And as you wait for the food order (Ardyn’s _treat_ for the morning, his way of “making breakfast” for people he would rather see dead) you’re not surprised when you sip your coffee and find it’s nearly water. 

“I know what you did.” 

You’re not startled that he waited until you had bean water in your mouth to speak. The element of surprise, some might say. But it’s not done cruelly. It’s a mercy. A small mercy. He’s giving you the chance to mull over his displeasure. A chance to think about what you’ve done and formulate a proper apology. This isn’t the first time nor will it be the last time that Ardyn will so ominously make such a declaration. He says it with all the moral authority of a judge: Tone sober and gaze superior. The first time he said this to you, it was after the Oracle came and visited. It was to be rather clandestine and yet he knew. 

It was out on the grounds that you met her. Night had fallen and your mother was taking you outside. She had pressed her finger to her lips, silver eyes full of silent warning, and you quietly followed after you’d been tugged out of bed. Your mother whispered in your ear to run to the east end of the gate, down the winding path from the greenhouse, and you did. And there she was. 

She looked like a specter, a will-o’-the-wisp, a pale face floating in a dark cloak. This was something your ancestors had done, though the roles were reversed. The meeting would have been sacrilege back in the day for that reason alone. To make the Oracle stoop to the Mage? Your ancestors likely rolled in their graves. But you were so struck by Lady Lunafreya’s presence that you didn’t think about the odd tale here and there that you read- that your mother had you read in the hopes of getting you to understand your unique obligation to that family line. A strange obligation, secondary in nature, with so many strings attached. To save and to let die. 

You should have recalled the tales. You should have recalled the argument you had overheard one night between the three Iovitas. How Aunt Lysa was to move to Tenebrae to fulfill “familial obligation” while your mother would stay and fulfill “divine obligation.” How Lysa had refused and left. “Why would I leave my king to protect some foreign monarch? Do you want to make me a deserter? You’ve made it no secret that _she’s_ your favorite, father. Must my honor be loved less than Decima’s as well?” 

And that night with Lunafreya, you swore yourself to fulfill both obligations at your own expense. With no siblings and no other family, you would stretch yourself so thin that your honor would be made translucent and frail. For the sake of the Oracle that you read about, saw on television, fallen for from afar. A _savior_. Looking back, it seemed like whimsy. But in the moment you had been so sure of yourself. Lunafreya had lost everything. There was an inconsolable sadness in her that you could feel and yet she had a smile for you. And yet she stayed true to her purpose. She was resilient but you wanted to make her stronger. The folly of a mage. 

It lasted maybe three hours, that meeting. The true purpose of it was never made known to you. While you made jokes to see those blue eyes sparkle, those eyes stole glances at the thing that watched you from the trees. And as Luna held your hand, she knew that a deal had been made before she could save you.  “Your mother told me that you’re a talented mage.” 

You preened, thankful for the compliment since you were quickly approaching the limits of your social “prowess.” It was a miracle that you even managed to fill three hours with conversation, but Luna had a calming effect on you. There was no judgment in her gaze. But you still found yourself growing weary, struggling to appear sociable and well-bred rather than awkward and asocial.  “I _am_ in the top of my class... But, Lady Lunafreya, she _is_ my mother. Perhaps you should take her praise with a grain of salt?” Perfectly humble. 

Luna smiled, seeing through that humble brag. “I’m glad that you’re to be the one to protect him.” She was talking about Noctis. You already knew it. 

“The Iovitas will always protect the Caelum line.” A practiced line. It was proclaimed like you were performing on a stage- Luna half expected you to stand and take a bow. Back then, six years ago, you said the words but you didn’t feel them. The next time you’ll say them, it will be with pain and vigor. 

“It is you who protects the protectors,” her grip on your hand tightened, a pained look on her face, “but _no one_ protects you, (y/n).” 

Instinctively, you ripped your hand from hers. Why would she say something like that? It was a strange thing to say in a conversation that had previously been about each other’s hobbies and favorite memories. There was movement in the trees. Temporarily distracted, you didn’t see her resignation. She was too late. With a painted on smile, you tried to shift the somber tone. That tendency to gloss over the harsh realities of your family’s fate did you no favors in the long run. “And as the protector, don’t I protect you, too?” 

“What do you mean?”  


“I’m certain those stories I read weren’t _merely_ stories.” 

Luna laughed, a breathy thing in the stillness of the night. “Yes. They were not merely stories. Our families have been tied to each other for generations.” 

“A lovestruck Iovita vowing to protect the blessed Oracle,” you mused, looking up at the twinkling stars, so lame at trying to make a pass. 

“You’re very funny, (y/n).” 

“No one calls me funny, Lady Lunafreya. I’m pragmatic. As an Iovita it is my duty to be calculating and precise. My protection extends to you. Our families have always crossed paths and yet...” You looked away. 

“(y/n)?” 

Noctis wasn’t the first person you’d ever bent your knee to, ever swore yourself to. It was all done in secret, under cover of darkness. It was a secret for two, something shared. Yet a third party had entered and you were blissfully unaware of the intrusion.  “Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, you shall not come to harm under my protection. I, (y/n) Iovita, swear a solemn oath to see you safely by the king’s side and, should the time come, lay my life down in place of yours.” 

“(y/n)...” 

The solemn severity in her tone, blue eyes morose, had you immediately and awkwardly joking, “Kind of romantic, huh?” 

“ _(y/n)_.” 

Sometimes you wonder if she regretted coming to you. If you embarrassed her. You swear you hand out solemn oaths of loyalty like candy. Rather, that was what Ardyn implied when he  scorched you with that golden gaze and sliced you with that sharp tongue. Somehow, he’d found out. And the next time he visited, you two had argued. It was the first and last time voices were ever raised.  “And thus you continue the family tradition of selling yourself to the prettiest face. That pact was not made on any call to duty. It was made on _lust_. Your fool ancestor fell for the Oracle and your family committed to the ruse as if it were a divine calling rather than the attempt of a mage to bed someone.” 

“What? How would you even _know_ that? That pact was made centuries ago, Ary. Or are you buying into the Spire’s lies, too?” 

“Tell me, (y/n), what do you expect to get out of this oath of yours? For protecting the little prince, you’ll be afforded luxuries and accolades, I’m sure. But the Oracle? Even your dear dead aunt was wise enough to shirk _that_ false duty. Stick to simply reading your damned fairytales, child, or they’ll be all you’ll have left in the end.” 

“So, you're offended that _I_ extended _my_ protection to the Oracle? Why? Are you jealous? That's rich coming from the man who always, without fail, tells me that my obligations and duties are a sham. Why grow green at the thought of me scamming others with pretty words that mean nothing?” 

“She will not deign to protect you. That is not her calling. Neither will that boy whom you idolize. You’ll burn before them and they will turn their back on you. Your self-sacrificing oaths will be ash in your hands. Do not deceive yourself and be the only fool left standing in the fire.” 

The coffee is lukewarm. Strange. You hadn’t thought you were in the restroom for that long. 

Just like six years ago, your temper flares up like a fire roaring to life. Unlike six years ago, you stifle it- _smother_ it. Don’t allow yourself to get riled up, all wide-eyed with equal parts fury and embarrassment. Fury for being undermined, embarrassment for being called shallow and foolish. All of those feelings come rearing back up and you don’t even know what he’s talking about. It’s funny how that works. But in the diner, waiting for the unassuming cook to slide omelettes into styrofoam containers? After crossing paths for the first time in five years? When you know, you just _know_ that he’s up to something nefarious? You can’t afford to raise your voice. 

So instead, you wear your best face, sip your weak, lukewarm coffee, and hum, “I’ve done quite a few things to earn a slap on my hand, Ary. Care to elaborate?” To anyone else, your tone might sound all wrong. It’s the fallback: Snark and pomp with just enough polite reservation to skim under his rather low threshold for rudeness. It’s passable coming from you. You don’t know it, but if you were anyone else you would’ve just signed your death warrant with that tone alone. 

Ardyn graces you with an unamused frown- eyes half-lidded, lips slightly pursed. “You threatened the Arch-Mage.” He corrects himself, “Well, the _current_ Arch-Mage.” 

_That_ takes you aback. “That’s old news,” you scoff. “Honestly, I’m surprised that you’re just _now_ hearing of it. Talmudge has a propensity for the dramatic when his ego gets slapped around so I assumed he would’ve gone crying to your precious emperor sooner.” 

Ardyn gives you a bored look. “You must learn to exercise restraint, (y/n). Your regrettable lack of respect for authority has made your situation with the emperor rather tenuous.” 

“My situation? There _is_ no situation other than him being my enemy.” A packet of sugar is ripped open and the contents are dumped in the coffee. The granules won’t melt for a while. “An offer was made and I refused. If the offer is no longer on the table, then so be it. I won’t be losing any  sleep over it.”  


“And yet you should. This is the offer of a _lifetime_ , (y/n). It is not _merely_ a job offer.” Eyes lock with his. 

Back in the Spire, there were odd rumors about you and the redhead. Some magisters thought you two were telepaths (“That’s a thing?” Drusa had asked your mother once she caught wind of the rumor. “No.” Had been your mother’s monosyllabic response. She didn’t like hearing about your time with the man.). The rumor only came to be because you two would often sit in silence. It was a luxury the redhead afforded you when you’d grow weary of talking, of trying to keep a conversation going like how the magisters tried to teach you. When the silence would drag on, communication would be made through looks. 

“All in the eyes,” Ardyn would chuckle. “And what emotive eyes you have, (y/n).” 

Yet his never were. But after years of those silent conversations, you grew to understand the things he didn’t say aloud with his eyes. Coming to _him_ willingly, _not_ the emperor, is the opportunity of a lifetime because it’s the only way he’ll allow you to live. You can see it now. That affection is still balanced on a knife’s edge. Malicious intent has never been a stranger to you. Almost all of the eyes in the Spire had it. You’d see it in the halls, the washrooms, the classrooms, out on the grounds. There was no escaping it, so it naturally became familiar. And you see it now, gazing at you from across the table in a diner that smells of smoke. 

Join or become his enemy. Come and dance on that knife’s edge once more. 

Ardyn can see your understanding and your resignation as plain as day. The way the light in your eyes becomes subdued, tempered. The chancellor almost laughs. There’s that Iovita arrogance, that _coldness_ , that he’s grown so fond of. You know your fate and yet that jaw hardens in defiance. You’re exactly like your ancestor. Sometimes it’s startling how deep those similarities run. The differences, however? One of those differences is staring boldly at him. That almost off- putting severity. Even as a child, you were so severe, like you were already hardened against the world. As if, despite being an automaton of the Fulgurian’s creation, you would do _anything_ to survive. Anything but this. 

The polarity between your heritage and _you_ has never been more apparent than now. Such a contradiction. Your ancestors were ready and willing to die. But you’ve always been obstinate. A smirk winds its way across his lips when he confirms that you’re still clinging to your fairytales. Truly, you think you can save yourself _and_ everyone else?  It takes you a moment to realize that steam is billowing up from your cup. A glance down reveals that the coffee is boiling. With a dignified cough, you release the cup and muse, "I wonder." 

"Wondering and wondering. The masterful mind of the mage is a maze to all." Golden eyes rest on you. He’s already well aware of your inner turmoil. How badly do you want to live? How badly do you want to make your mother and your ancestors proud? "Do you have a question for me, my mage?" 

"Was the poison your idea, then?"  


He gives you a wide, curious smile. But those eyes are unblinking. "Poison, you say?" 

"Yes. I was wondering if that was part of the plan- a failsafe, if you will. I rejected your job offer and then I had to get the axe." You drum your fingers on the table. "But you should pick your proxies better. The wonderful _Arch-Mage_ had me poisoned before that offer even left his lying  mouth." 

"Hm." Ardyn sips his coffee. "What an intriguing tale. However, if I wanted you dead I would have done it myself. You know me, dearest. I’m never afraid of getting my hands dirty when need be." 

"Oh, my. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't flattered," you lie. You lie so easily, so seamlessly with him. You both do it. Lies are interwoven in your conversations, the framework of your dynamic. Feeding each other lies and pretending like the other doesn't know any better. “But I’m afraid that I still must refuse.” 

There’s lightning in his eyes as well as in his teeth when he smiles at you. It’s not forced, it comes so easily to him. That look alone tells you that you missed the point entirely. Like always, you’re left trailing behind. He reads you like an open book but to you he’s a foreign language that you haven’t practiced in an age.  “The ingrate does not often recognize his debt, even when he has it pointed out for him.” 

The coffee is hot on your tongue and you suddenly realize your mistake. This was never an offer to begin with.


	28. 11. Saboteur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sword of the Wanderer and the fight with Titan are glossed over in this chapter. Mainly ‘cause... it’s time to set up the unrealistic happy ending with you: Our mage ex machina. After this chapter, we’ll get back to the usual narrative flow. Oh, just as a reminder, please give the "Aubergine" installments that were posted before this chapter a glance, 'cause that's where all of the Ardyn interactions occur.
> 
> Let’s do this. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Mega AU, Mega Angst, Magic, Just Magey Things, Mages Making Bad Decisions, Intense Tense Flippage, OOC Galore, Bad Writing, Hella Bad, Bad Meaning Bad, Not Bad Meaning Good

** 11\. Saboteur  **

On rainy days in the Spire, ensconced in books with your face lit up in the pale blue light from a borrowed tablet, you often dreamed of living other people’s lives. Lives filled with adventure, friends, and maybe drama. It didn’t matter as long as it was something new. But you knew your lot in life. You were born into studious work and you would die in it. Yet you wished for more. You yearned for more. Being allowed to walk on the college’s expansive grounds by yourself was enough for about a month. Because although you could walk and walk, seemingly forever, you’d still find yourself grabbing the iron fence that kept you in. There was a world beyond it. 

And you wished for it. But you should always be careful what you wish for. 

Attacking an imperial base wasn’t something you thought you’d ever do. That was never part of the life you thought was planned for you. Befriending a snake wasn’t something you thought you would do, either. You do so pride yourself on being able to read people and yet you’d been duped. The two go hand-in-hand. They serve to show you your potential _and_ your limits. Taking down the base, clearing the blockade? It felt liberating. Sure, you’d passed out from exhaustion in the middle of it, but you played no small part in it. For a while, you were riding high on that success; the guys noticed the extra swagger to your gait. Then you got to Lestallum and came crashing down. 

It’s almost laughable when you look back on it. Everything was going so well- _too_ well, you note. You made a chocobo friend, got some one-on-one time with your... favorite person, and you got to meet Iris Amicitia, Jared Hester, and Jared’s grandson, Talcott. They were all so nice. You had been overwhelmed by how _nice_ they were. 

“Lady Iris,” you’d greeted the younger Amicitia formally, “it’s an honor to make your  acquaintance.”  


“I’ve heard so much about you from the guys,” laughed Iris, cheeks noticeably a bit pink. 

With a coolness only reserved for first-meetings (since, thereafter, it’s guaranteed Social Faux Pas Hell from you), you’d queried, eyes half-lidded and smile on full display, “All good things, I hope?” And she went _red._ Gladio had never heard his sister giggle like that before. 

“How the hell is (y/n) so smooth?” Prompto had hissed to Noctis who merely shrugged. Though you may have initially charmed the girl (and Gladio was gonna have words with you about that), she still inevitably ended up shadowing Noctis later that day. 

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last, Arch-Mage (y/n).” Jared had bowed and you’d nodded your head regally, as you’d been taught; just a dip of the chin, crown of the head up, eyes downcast in deference. You’d done the same to Talcott and the boy looked like he was seeing stars. You didn’t correct either of them about the inaccurate title. But then came the start of the very long fall. Talcott unwittingly clipped your wings when he pointed out and gushed over the cactuar charm on your phone. He asked where you got it and the blade cut the feathers. With a smile that was far too wide, you promised him that you would find him one the next time you were at a store. 

“Was it a gift?” 

_Snip!_

“Huh. I always wondered that myself. You sure do seem fond of it, Magey.” 

_Snip!_

“Somehow, it really suits you.” 

_Snip!_

“I’m sure whoever gave it to them thought the same thing: Cute and awkward but packs an electric punch.” 

_Snip!_

“Did you just call (y/n) cute, Prompto?”  


“We’re friends! Friends can call each other cute!” 

But all of those harmless questions and comments didn’t prepare you for the one thing that was sure to have you spiraling out of control. The timing was perfect. It was so hilariously perfect that you often find yourself looking back and shaking your head, wondering if somehow he had it all planned out. He already knew them. They’d all already met. When you’d thrown yourself down on the beach in Galdin Quay to root around in the dirt and the sand, you’d dodged a red-headed bullet. He didn’t even see you when he left, always with that tunnel vision for his goal; and you didn’t see him because your nose was in the ground, always so focused on your craft. 

Passersby. 

If only you two could have remained like that- on different tracks, never meeting. But he had wormed his way into your life well before he took off his hat and bowed low to you in Lestallum. You had broken bread with him, confided in him, laughed with him, years and years ago. Yet you smiled and greeted him as if it was the first time. Fear and shame. Just like that, you traded feelings  of competency and pride for fear and shame. Because those golden eyes that looked at you, that looked _through_ you, scorched your soul. Because he’s the one person who knows your secrets- every last one, in almost excruciating detail. 

Except... he knows more than even _you_ do. He knows enough to destroy you both. It’s honestly a miracle that you hold out for as long as you do. Guilt is so arduous to grapple with after spending so much time with these people. You don’t think even Titan himself would be able to keep the guilt from crushing you. And that’s saying something, considering you’re now uncomfortably knowledgeable on how much strength the Archaean has... 

Prompto flips through the photos at camp, still freaking out over the fight with Titan- the battle _with an Astral_. He stops at one picture and flinches. "Oh! Ouch, (y/n)! That looks like it hurt." 

Peering over his shoulder, you see the image of you getting backhanded by the Archaean- staff still miraculously in hand, yet limbs all splayed out in the air like a ragdoll. The damn giant nearly bitchslapped you into another universe. With a shrug of your shoulders you smile and laugh, " _Nah_. Barely felt anything." 

Noctis glances from the picture to you. "Sure did scream kinda loud." 

"Barely felt anything," you grind out, smile painted on now.  


“And you sure did yell out every expletive known to man,” quips Gladio. 

“Plus, some rather inventive ones,” Ignis chuckles. 

“Barely. Felt. _Anything_.” 

And you aren’t exactly lying in that instance. The pain was so great that you were rendered temporarily and blissfully numb... for all of five seconds before it hit you in one great sensory overload. And then Prompto flips to another picture and your blood runs cold. Everyone goes quiet at the sight of the Chancellor of Niflheim. You can feel curious glances. The pain of the Archaean’s killer backhand is nothing compared to the emotional pain that you feel when you realize that the others’ trust in you is slipping out from between your fingers. 

“The truth will set you free.” 

Whoever said that was a godsdamned liar or they hadn’t summoned a daemon and traded away nearly a decade of their life for a toad. Because you’re too damn suspicious, you’re too damn obvious. You care about these guys so much that you can’t even lie to them properly. And it’s _always_ been that way. Even when you were at the top of your game, you could never lie to your mother or Drusa. There are too many tells that you give away to someone you care for: You maintain too much eye contact, there’s an edge to your tone, your bottom lip quivers. It’s almost like you _want_ to be caught- like it’s your way of telling the truth without actually telling the truth. 

“ _So, why did I think it would be any different?_ ” 

Rationalization. That’s why. That’s what stills your tongue each time you prepare to fess up and tell the truth. You think that if you have a good reason for lying, that it makes it okay. It’s the timing. It’s because there’s _so much_ to tell. That’s what you tell yourself, anyway. How can you confess to summoning the daemon _now_? The opportunity passed. How can you confess when the Spire has thrown in with the Empire? When you were offered a place at the emperor’s side? When that job offer was the work of a friend who is the _Chancellor of Niflheim_? It’s a convoluted little web. It all paints a very unflattering picture of you. 

“But I rejected the offer!” You could say. But there’s still the issue of not disclosing that an offer  was even made in the first place and that the Spire of Duscae is so far up the Empire’s ass that it could work as a proxy to offer you a job to begin with. 

“But I was a child!” You could argue. But that doesn’t explain why you would pretend that you _didn’t know_ Ardyn, your Niff pal who had the job opened to you, before his affiliation with the Empire came to light. 

“But I was a _child_!” You could insist. And that would absolve you of some culpability for summoning the daemon and for fearing that Ardyn would rat you out if you made your relationship known. And it would expose you and your magic to scrutiny- the type of scrutiny the Spire gobbles up. 

It all comes down to image. Truly, it’s hilarious in the most unfunny way possible. That the guys have all puzzled out most of your history with Ardyn, namely that you _knew each other_ , isn’t known to you. That they’ve all noticed that your daemon hasn’t left you isn’t known to you. That they’re all patiently waiting for you to come clean about your not-so-secret secrets isn’t known to you. 

On the drive to the Disc of Cauthess and even before then, when you pretended to meet for the first time, you had been outed. A startled look, a playful tap on the nose, a wag of a finger and a command to, “Be careful, little mage.” It was all it took for the ruse to be undone. The trickery was for no one’s benefit but your own. 

Before you all got to Lestallum, the other secret was exposed. You had shined a light on yourself and the daemon did the rest. Loose lips sink ships and yours were never more loose than when you had imbibed too much whiskey and revealed yourself to be a novice necromancer. And then came the nighttime whispers, the cries, the warnings. None of the men are fool enough to think that the visitor is a trick of the mind or the product of a waking nightmare. No doubt was left in their mind when, on the night that you had run into Ardyn, they all awoke to an enraged yell and the trash bin where you’d tossed nine innocuous macarons had been thrown at the wall. Yet you remained soundly asleep and mumbled, “Yeah, I know.” 

They thought _you knew_ you had this visitor. They thought you were keeping it a secret from them and that you would tell them in your own time. Because of all your grandstanding, the precedent had been set that you’re the leading authority on magic and _who the hell are they_ to question you? What do _they_ know about daemons? About this strange magic? The only one fooled is you. And it’s a long fall. 

You’re temporarily suspended in midair when you come to someone’s rescue, when you do something endearing like enchant jewelry to keep someone safe. But then the downward spiral continues because you keep your lips sealed. All through the fall, you maintain eye contact. Years down the line, that’s what haunts them all the most. You fall and it’s like you don’t even realize it. 

Seeing the way _Ardyn Izunia_ looks at your prince is what jettisons you off down a dangerous path. At first it was the armiger and the horror stories your ancestors told that made you delve into such a curious and dark magic. But that _look_... Protective instincts rear up at the expense of self- preservation. The meaning hidden in his chats with you, the flashing of his golden eyes. You know him well but not well enough. It’s what keeps you up late at night: Trying to solve the mystery that is Ardyn’s plan. 

“You should really get some sleep.” 

It’s said a million times, comes from different people. A rumor eventually stirs up that Arch-Mage (y/n) doesn’t sleep. It frightens your foes, makes you a legend. Your blood is black because of the ink and the coffee, people joke. When in reality, it’s black because you’re all rotted from the inside  out. All rotted right down to the core in pursuit of your king’s salvation. The way it starts is what Ignis will bitterly refer to one day as your gateway drug: Enchantments. You’ve been enchanting since you were a child. It was second nature to you, like any other child’s natural inclinations towards art, sports, or other passions. 

It was borne from a simple thought of: “How can I make this thing I like... _better_?” 

So, it’s inevitable that you fall back on enchanting- one of your strongest magics- to fill the void in your studies, to seal the little gaps, to make you into the hero that you think you can be, that you _need_ to be for king and country. Always so dutiful, those Iovitas. Ramuh would be proud. You’re all tied up in herbalism, though, that no one really pays your habit of enchanting any mind. Ignis and Gladio are the only ones to notice you stealing random trinkets everywhere you go and replacing them with things you’ve enchanted: little reminders that you were there, little echoes of the mage passing through. When the long night falls, some people are saved. 

They marvel over the bell that renders daemons unconscious, the compact mirror that deflects attacks, the plastic spork that flies around and stabs daemons in the face. Though they question the reasoning (or lack thereof) behind the enchantments, they use those random knickknacks to fight back. But, honestly, everyone expects that it’s your herbalism that will cause the most trouble. Like all the Iovitas before you, some magic just comes to you easier than others. 

Some of your ancestors could warp. You can’t. Some did scrying. You don’t. Some scoffed at herbalism. You never did. You were always too... _earthy_. That’s what the magisters called it. They laughed and said you fancied yourself a druid who couldn’t stand being outdoors and out of the A/C for too long. They thought you loved your plants too much, that you loved animals too much. If there was ever a wild animal loose in the Spire (namely toads, rats, and all manner of birds), everyone knew where to point their finger. That silly little mage, sneaking creatures into the college in that oversized cardigan. 

“I can’t wait to show you my room!” You’d hissed down the front of your shirt one day, too young to be taught with the other students but old enough to wander the grounds. Unlucky. Because your mother was teaching a class and you happened to be walking by the open door. Decima bit her lip and called you into the classroom. They were all older mages, in their late teens and early twenties. She’d asked you who you were talking to. You didn’t notice her look over your shoulder. 

“Um...” You had tried to stall, feeling hot under the collective gaze of haughty mages, all of them looking at the cardigan that seemed to be fighting to get off of you. But you didn’t have to answer at all and you’d never heard so many people scream out at once before. It was like a magician’s parlor trick, the way the daggerquill burst forth from your cardigan, sending buttons and feathers flying everywhere. Your somewhat foolish love of animals? That’s part of the reason why you were made to practice your magic on toads- because you would cry if they got hurt and you sure as hell didn’t sweat it if you mistakenly zapped a magister, that’s for damn sure. 

What better incentive to get the little mage to hone their magic than to put something they cared about in danger? Ruthless and callous, some might say. _But..._ you have to shrug, nod, and admit that it got the job done, childhood trauma be damned. Each time one of the guys walks unscathed through a wall of your fire, a field of freezing mist, a veil of venom, or a lightning storm, you’re positive some asshole magister is patting themselves on the back and a toad is happy to be getting fat on insects. 

So, even the magisters believed it would be your penchant for herbalism and smuggling animals that would be your undoing. Though you hadn’t stuffed a wild animal in your shirt in ages, they figured you might get mauled out in the real world sooner or later or accidentally poison yourself. Though they knew you were _supposedly_ a strong mage, they didn’t know the extent of your  enchanting ability outside of making the lock to your bedroom un-pickable. No one knew that you would run with the crazy idea of binding your soul to Noctis’. That you would enchant _yourself_ in order to become his stalwart protector. That you would quite literally rip out your own soul the moment you saw the malice in Ardyn’s gaze and you realized you were helpless to stop him. 

Those limitations that were made aware to you? They burn inside of you each time the chancellor looks at you. His teasing gaze, his taunting words. The veiled threats and the bile on your tongue. And when he discovers what you’ve done, that’s when the thunder finally comes. It shakes the world out from beneath your feet. And you can’t even die to escape it. 

"I know what I'm doing." 

“ _Arrogance..._ ” 

You tilt your head curiously. It’s not your voice that hisses the word. The voice comes from beneath your chair as you sit at camp in the evening. But an aspect of your statement strikes you, distracts you. Lately you find yourself saying it more and more in the company of these men. Because you _have to_ know what you're doing- even when you don't. And when it comes to all of the surprising nuances of binding magic, you're out of your depth. Though it’s technically a branch of enchanting, this magic requires a teacher, practice, and time. You don't have two of those things but you sure as hell can practice. 

Which is why you find yourself in this situation: Confronted for leaving camp at odd hours; for skulking away before sunset, for sneaking in just before sunrise. Though the others are accustomed to you randomly going off to find herbs the second a tipster makes mention of something new in the area, they're close enough to you to see a peculiar severity in you. But it’s yet another secret that you won’t reveal. At least, you won’t reveal it until you’re ready. You're not ashamed of what you've been doing. Not on the surface. Fear is a finicky, tricky creature. Fear has you rationalizing each daemon you bind to yourself when the sun goes down and each one you summon the very next evening. 

You have to get it right before you do it to Noctis- do it to _yourself_ on the other end. Each soul gets tacked onto you- like pinning little notes onto a cork board. And then you look inward, like Lumis said. At first you thought it was just a bunch of flowery hippie garbage until you tried it. Years of studying in the Spire pay off splendidly because it grants you with the ability to block everything out. Meditation is a tough thing to do with a camp of rowdy guys, though. That’s why you take to the wilderness. “Spiritual training,” you call it and all they can do is shrug ‘cause _you’re_ the mage. In reality, you’re checking to see if the souls are seeping into yours. You draw those mental blackout curtains around you and then reach out. 

It’s strange how you can sense them. Like little wisps, they dance around. Their energy buzzes at your fingertips. You hold them in the palm of your hand, feel their sorrow, their corruption. It was a surreal experience when you first bound a soul to you. It took a while to learn to banish a daemon. It took _too_ long to learn a spell not from your branch. But you did it. And then you knew you were ready for the next step. You’d made to banish a goblin, like Lumis had instructed, and then turned it _inward_ toward you. Just like how you learned to use force and gravity: One spell and its opposite. 

But it’s so much _easier_ than banishing. A wave of your hand and you steal life. Then you do it again and again and again. Though the souls are insular, their properties remaining to themselves, you can almost feel the weight of them somehow- like a constant state of claustrophobia. You realize you need to start storing them elsewhere. Eyes turn up to the little shard of crystal in your staff. 

“Where have you been sneakin’ off to?" It comes from Gladiolus during dinner. He, like the  others, can sense a tonal shift in you. It’s been weeks since you last saw the chancellor and practically the moment that golden gaze left you you’ve rarely spent any time in camp. They all think he said something. They think he threatened you. How are you supposed to explain that he threatened Noct _with his eyes_? 

Shoulders shrug lazily. A coffee cup is barely tilted, hot caffeine scalding your tongue and you sputter, "J-Just going out to practice spells. Damn that’s some hot coffee!” 

Prompto looks excited. He nearly chokes on his curry to gasp, "Ooh! Really? Can I co-" 

"No." 

All eyes are on you. That blunt, unforgiving tone is reserved for when you’re hiding something. And it’s plain for all to see that you’re definitely hiding something. The prince gives you a pointed look and drawls, "That's not suspicious." 

"They're dangerous spells," you reply snootily, like that answer is enough. 

"I'd wager it's more than just that." 

What are you supposed to say? That you’re doing “morally gray” magic? Are the magic police going to come and stop you? Hell, _Ramuh_ hasn't even stopped you! But that's no surprise. The Astrals haven't done a thing in ages and Noct has to punch them in the face to get their attention. And you’re bitter. Oh, are you bitter. Because here you are, the last line of defense. _You_. You’re doing shit that your ancestors warned you about because what other choice do you have? The Astrals’ precious Kings are about to go extinct and their Oracle is in the middle of a war zone. And for what? _For what_? 

Maybe it’s lack of sleep that sours you. Maybe it’s just the reality of the situation that finally rips your rose-tinted glasses off of your face once and for all. Maybe it’s all of the daemon souls that dance around yours like faerie lights strung about, glimmering each time you close your eyes and look inward. The thing that really sticks in your craw is that you still pray to Ramuh. Even being jaded and bitter can’t beat that out of you. Though, in all honesty, you’re surprised you haven’t been struck down for snidely starting all of your prayers off with, “Oh, my absentee lightning grandfather, I invoke thee...” and ending with, “this is (y/n), _the one you forgot_ , signing off.” 

“I’ll tell you guys when you’re older,” you joke, re-entering the conversation and not realizing that that’s actually going to be the case. Ten years older, in fact. 

For the time being, you don’t see any real harm in withholding this information because the only person it’s impacting is _you_. You’re the one with the daemon souls. You’re the one who plucks them off and watches them fade away. You’re the one who’s going to be like a daemon soul to Noctis... Something he can pluck off and watch fade away. And you hope that you won’t need to maintain the bind with Noct for too long. Just until he ascends to the throne. Just until he’s established himself as king. Just until you’re certain the threat of the Empire, the threat of _Ardyn_ , isn’t too great. So... maybe like a year or two? You’re certain you can handle the strain on your soul for a couple of years at the most. 

“(y/n),” Ignis scolds, brow furrowed and you laugh. 

“Honestly, I’ll tell you guys all about it later. It’s not that big of a deal.” 

Because you’re a Spire mage, through and through, and you'll never let anyone know that Ardyn's presence was enough to _break you_ \- to strike fear so deep in your heart that it hurt. The truth never comes easy, secrets always go to the grave. And one’s image? Well, image is _everything_. From an institution that hired assassins through proxies, leaving every crime untraceable, every lead looking like nothing more than  conspiracy theories: The value of keeping up appearances. Hands clean. That’s where you learned it. You like to think that you’re above it all, that the Spire didn’t leave its mark on you. But your formative years were spent there, surrounded by liars and backbiters. And your one friend from the outside world was who you fashioned yourself after, foolishly in awe of him, until you realized exactly _what_ he was. By the time you left the Spire, it was practically in your genetic code: 

_Image is everything_.  


And as you crash and as you burn alive, you look damn fine doing it. 


	29. So Be It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some angst and bad decisions all around. Where someone else's past comes up to bite you in the ass. This is a side story that isn't a main chapter.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Mild Language, Vague References to Child Abuse, Strange Magic, Decima!, All in the Past

** So Be It **

From practically the moment Decima Iovita gave birth, many hands were pulling her child away from her; both well-intentioned and malicious, divine and daemonic. She gave birth in a coeurl's den and cursed herself for it. Drusa had been at her side along with Lysandra. 

"They'll grow up strong. I can feel it," beamed Lysa, already thrusting the infant into their duty to serve, their duty to die.  Like her father, she didn’t see the birth of another Iovita as the birth of a child. She saw (y/n) as her twin _finally_ being useful, _finally_ fulfilling the family’s obligation to the king. With the child’s birth, the king’s line would remain protected for at least one more generation. 

Drusa had seen the tension in Decima's face, had been privy to her best friend’s woes throughout the tumultuous pregnancy, and interjected, "They have a wonderful life ahead of them." 

Silver eyes narrowed at the dark woman. That icy Iovita smile cut across the mage’s face and her words burned. "You're many things to me, Drusa, but don't make yourself a liar." 

The life she'd nurtured for nine long months would never truly be hers- a bitter pill Decima had swallowed the moment she found out she was pregnant. Still, the taste lingered in her mouth as she watched her child grow from afar. They had been hers and hers alone for those months but she had wanted more.  More time. But there was never enough time. 

The two Iovitas were constantly being pulled in opposite directions. It had been the same way with her father. Tacitus had been a parent in name only, a face that became familiar when Decima and Lysandra would be granted visits from the Iovita patriarch at their home outside Lestallum.  She knew _nannies_ better than her father. Decima told herself it wouldn’t be that way with (y/n). 

There were two parties at play working against that wish but in different ways. One unintentionally put a wedge between Decima and her child. The other actively strove to isolate the child, to keep them out of the new Arch-Mage’s sight, to make the lonely Iovitas easier targets. 

She had known about one group: The Spire.  The college’s bloody history with the Iovitas was not so far in the past that Decima could be fooled. That history was what kept Lysandra at bay. Though Lysa put on a front, she feared the Spire. She thought that staying away would save her. She thought that being in the Crownsguard would help her.  She was wrong. And Decima knew.  


Tacitus fell ill shortly after Lysandra’s death, shortly after her body had been recovered from some  ditch in some remote part of Insomnia that she had no business being in. The old man was made of sturdy stuff. Decima thought he was indomitable. She had seen him create storms that could ravish lands.  Yet his fire was snuffed out like a candle in the rain. And Decima knew. 

From the moment she stepped foot in the Spire as a magister, from the moment she found out she was pregnant, from the moment her lover was found drowned, she had always known. Aela the Banisher, so blinded by revenge and ego, had handed her descendants off to the slaughterhouse.  It was a beautiful trap. A bittersweet trap. 

Because if it weren’t for Aela signing Decima’s death warrant before the mage had even been born, Decima never would have been able to work so closely with Regis. Never would have been there to steady his hand when the Wall weakened him, never there to wipe the tears from his son’s cheeks.  She would have been a nomad like her ancestors. 

If it weren’t for Aela, Decima wouldn’t have met any of the wonderful people she had grown to love. Her child would not know the comfort of a caretaker like Drusa. But if it weren’t for Aela, Decima might have stood a chance at living a long life. A difficult trade-off: To live long and alone or die young and beloved.  But Decima was wise. 

She had the foresight to enlist some help before (y/n) was born. Her first line of defense was her best friend; someone she’d met as a young girl, a stranger who had stumbled across the house hidden in the wilderness where the Iovita twins resided. Someone adventurous and unafraid. Someone kind and strong. 

"Drusa, I'm afraid for them," Decima had whispered into the phone, shut up in her workplace below Arch-Mage Tacitus’ dimly lit office. 

The scientist had sighed. This conversation had occurred several times and Decima never liked Drusa’s suggestions (though, admittedly, “Kill them.” and “Hire a merc disguised as a mage.” weren’t exactly viable options). "Dee, you know they won't let your father hire me because I'm your friend." 

"That's just it,” the silver-haired mage had breathed. “They _don't_ know you're my friend. When you're hired on, act like them. Get to know the other magisters. I'm going to need you to protect my child when they're born." 

"Though I quite fancy the idea of being a spy... I don't know if you remember or not but I study _animals_ , not magic." 

The Iovita had stuck her nose in the air (Drusa could almost hear it and it brought a grin to her face) and declared, "Then the Spire will teach a class on wildlife." 

"I... Well then. I suppose I can't say no to that, hm? I can't wait for little...?" 

"(y/n)." 

A charmed laugh left the dark woman’s lips. "For little (y/n) to be born. Will they look like their father?" She asked this delicately, for the man’s untimely demise was still a fresh wound. 

"You know that's not how it works." 

"How _does_ it work? Your family is one of the greatest mysteries on Eos," Drusa had stated, tone lilting with curiosity, her background in biology coming out. 

"Dru." 

"Sorry.” Drusa smiled then and reassured her friend, “I'll polish up my résumé and buy a broomstick." 

"Wrong magic user." 

"Wand?"  


"Try again." 

And then there was the other party behind the scenes, its nature not entirely known. This one could be called a childhood friend... of sorts. It had been present for (y/n)’s birth, awakened from the moment the infant breathed their first breath. Unable to reach out and hold that little hand, even though the child had been born in the dead of night.  Some might have called it Decima’s familiar. Though, those individuals would be partially incorrect. The wretched creature had favored Decima from a young age but it couldn’t protect her in its current state- it was useless, pitiful, and weak. But it was also without a mind rational enough to be a wholly beneficial familiar if it _was_ one.  Without that rational mind, it caused great harm. 

Because there was a snake in the grass that Decima didn't see. A snake that the daemon watched with lidless eyes. The snake was more wily than the others, better at disguising his malfeasance, cunning enough to make the little mage look like they enjoyed his company above all else.  Decima thought Magister Orion was a blessing- one more person for her child to lean on.  Because little (y/n) certainly _seemed_ to like him and never had anything bad to say about him when asked. That was always one of Decima's faults. She always tried to see the good in people- a luxury she couldn’t afford. And the young man had deceived her with his charming visage and humble demeanor. 

Then he went missing. Then (y/n) stopped talking, would shake when his name was mentioned.  And on Drusa's birthday Decima had snapped a photo of her child and the magister together during dinner. In the photo, where (y/n) sat with a meek smile, the creature stood behind their seat. And she knew what it was. She knew what had been done. 

Quietly, without letting the other magisters know, she called off the search for Magister Orion Spiros.  She reached out to Queen Sylva for help. She couldn't banish the daemon on her own- she wasn't nearly as powerful as Aela. But the queen couldn't risk a journey to Lucis with the political atmosphere so delicate. She would send her daughter, already so adept at her magic.  But then tragedy struck and Decima was alone. 

The daemon appeared in her dreams for the first time in decades and foretold of a man who would keep death off of (y/n)'s heels for a small price. It promised it had no ill will toward the child. Decima knew who this creature was and she was not afraid. No. She was never afraid. She was resigned.  Resigned to the fate that her child had chosen.  


“Accept the bargain.” It had entreated her.  


Decima stared the wretched thing down and commanded, “Protect my child.” 

At her desk, she had stared at the photo, fingers ghosting over the glossy image. That young face, so open and innocent. How could anyone try to hurt someone so sweet and so young? As her child grew older, as their features matured, Decima would find herself looking at the photo more and more.  Nostalgia. A face from her childhood.  That face, made attractive in dreams, was horrid in reality. Lysandra never entertained the daemon. She was dutiful in that respect, listened to what Tacitus had said: "On long nights it stirs awake. But you must turn your back on it and give it no quarter. For it will surely tempt you with powers divine in order to be allowed entry into this realm once more." 

But Decima's tender heart had been taken in by the beast. The wretched crying, the mournful wailing. She had reached a small, pale hand out into the darkness of her dream and said, "Don't cry." 

A gnarled hand, charred black, had reached out from the shadow and took her tiny hand in its own. The first Iovita in millennia to show compassion, the first to acknowledge it.  It was a short-lived affair. The banished creature falling back into its slumber after a few days. The cycle it always repeated: it would awake when a child was born, greet the Iovita child when they were old enough to speak, desperate for companionship, but forced to sleep again in its banished state. 

Not once did it tempt Decima. Not once did it ask to be freed.  It merely liked to sit with her in her dreamscape and watch the sun rise again and again. Sometimes it asked her to sing, closed its eyes in its pleasant human form at the sound of her voice. Perhaps that was why Decima didn’t find the need to warn her child about them. It had never tempted her.  She didn’t know it would tempt her child. Then again, Decima hadn’t been born in a coeurl’s den. 

From the moment the creature held Decima's small hand, it had its sights on her. Even as it slept, it dreamed of her, wanted to protect her and all she held dear. The first stirrings of joy blossomed in its hollow chest when it awoke when the one called (y/n) breathed their first breath. But the joy was stifled.  The daemon watched from the shadows, perplexed. They had never felt so drawn to an Iovita before. Familiarity fluttered on the fringes of a mind long lost. Something seen in a mirror, the reflection of a pond. Hands held together, warm like sunshine. _Sunshine_... 

A lipless mouth struggled to smile. Tears fell down gaunt, burned cheeks. It visited the child in earnest, before the child could even speak, especially when it recognized a loneliness in that ethereal soul.  The daemon was surprised by the child's power. (y/n) could see them in the faintest shadow, would shoot secret smiles the daemon's way, tell jokes at a magister's expense to hear that hissing laugh that spooked non-seers. 

(y/n) would hold the daemon's hand under the table while they practiced writing their letters, able to touch them even in their banished state. And then the man with the pleasant face and the ugly soul arrived and they couldn't hold hands anymore. Because he would sit right next to (y/n).  Because he always sat so close. " _Too... close..._ " the daemon had growled. " _Too... close..._ " No one heard. 

The magister with the nice face and the kind smiles offered food and the daemon watched his wicked hands. He offered again and again. (y/n) ate again and again. And (y/n) fell ill. "Stomach bug," the magisters called it, exchanging meaningful looks. But the daemon knew. The daemon knew. 

It visited in earnest especially when it saw danger.  Decima's child _was_ in danger. The daemon was compelled to act. In its corrupted mind, setting the stage for the child to summon it to perform necromancy was a mercy. In dreams, they tempted the child with the ability to bring back the patriarch and the twin, tempted them with Decima's happiness.  "Thy mother shall be pleased with thee, young one," it had whispered. 

( y/n) had held the daemon’s hand and asked, “Will she stop crying?” 

But the child was hesitant, stared at the skulls in Drusa’s office with a look of dread, especially when they asked Decima about necromancy and the Arch-Mage scared them away from it. They opted to practice on a toad. Yes. Yes. That was good enough for the daemon.  It would be enough to break through; all the strong child needed to do was call out. It was persistent. 

Sleep called to the daemon yet it ignored it, pushed the mageling, stole nine years of the child's life to be able to help, to be useful. And yet... The sobbing, the shaking. It couldn't console the child. Little legs scrambled to push away across the stone floor, away from the viscera where the poisoner once stood.  " _Io... vita...?_ " The daemon called, reached out for that tiny hand. And the child screamed. 

To be forgotten again... was the creature's greatest fear. (y/n) stopped looking to the shadow, built an insurmountable wall in their dreamscape to shut them out. The daemon's voice became garbled in the mageling's ears. They wanted to forget. They forced themselves to forget. And after a while,  they finally did.  But the danger remained.  The daemon still needed to protect the mageling but it couldn't eviscerate a human in front of the child again- it couldn't steal the life of the pleasant poisoner's benefactor. It was aware enough to realize the mageling didn't fancy seeing that. Aware that these things should be done without (y/n) knowing. 

And, unable to help the child in daylight, it would need to call out to someone else, someone who _could_ walk in the daylight, someone strong, someone who would kill for power. It needed the traitor.  The creature made the young Iovita a thing to be protected and desired: powerful, malleable, and with a face that plucked at the man's blackened heartstrings. 

"You wish to play on whatever nostalgia you think I might have, daemon? Do your gods think that by reclaiming that visage they'll still my hand?" He'd laughed, the smile not reaching his eyes as he stared in the daemon's twisted face. "Humanity is not a defect that I am in possession of. If you wish me to _protect_ your mageling, I'll have them as my slave." 

This wasn’t what the daemon wanted. Its mind struggled to comprehend the meaning in those golden eyes, the meaning that was contrary to the words. But it could sense the urgency and it had already bargained on Decima’s behalf. For a perverse love of the mageling the daemon hissed, " _So... be it..._ " 


	30. Hunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. It reads: _Can you tell us about Magey's dad, or is that spoilerly?_
> 
> There aren’t any spoilers really associated with him aside from how his death was handled and we’ve already crossed that messy little bridge. He plays no role in the MC’s life so information about him is only mentioned in passing by other characters (e.g., a magister informs y’all that your dad was a daemon hunter which kickstarted your interest in daemons). HOWEVER this provides angst fodder so buckle the hell up.
> 
> This is based off of that tidbit of information all the way back in chapter 1 where Magister Roe mentioned that your father was a daemon hunter. So, we have our aptly named ficlet because I’m so creative. Anyway, there’s a reference in here to a Decima fic that I’ve yet to post ‘cause it’s still in its garbage phase.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Alcohol Use, Intense Tense Flippage, Bad Writing, Hella Bad, Angst Angst Angst, Bitter Decima

**Hunter**

She never talks about him.

Well, she talks about him but she  _doesn’t_ … if that makes any sense. She hasn’t even given you his name. Naturally, your curiosity about your father has grown over the years. When you were a child, it was easy for you to go about not realizing that someone was missing from your life. You knew “mother,” “aunt,” “grandfather,” and “ancestor.” Then, over time, you knew “uncle” as well. It never bothered you that you didn’t know “father.”

Until it did.

People can be cruel. You know this. They can be cruel over the pettiest of things. They can be cruel over the absence of a father. But you were unaware of how acutely that cruelty would hurt over something you honestly never spent too long thinking about. When you got older, your classmates would get visits from their families and you’d marvel over how they looked together. It looked natural.

It looked like something you didn’t know you wanted.

And you asked your mother about your father and Decima said the usual things that she always said. He was heroic and fearless. He would have loved you to bits. He would have been so proud of the progress that you’re making as Crown Prince Noctis’ arcane advisor. And she went misty-eyed, as she always did, and she went cold when you asked how he died, as she always did.

And you were unsatisfied,  _as always_.

Then the magisters began to make disparaging remarks about your conduct in class. You were apparently “just like your father” when your patience wore thin and you said something bitterly sarcastic and disrespectful. This was new. Your father was rude? Crass? Low-brow? A stark contrast to your mother’s description. When probed for more information, your instructors waved you off uncomfortably. Only Magister Roe let something slip.

Daemon hunter.

It’s a slip of the tongue that almost costs him his job as Arch-Mage Decima watches her only child dive headfirst into every book available in the Spire concerning daemonology. It’s a monster of her own making and she knows it. Despite how she had hoped to protect you from the terrible truth about your father’s fate, she calls you to her office one crisp Autumn morning with the hopes of doing some damage control.

There’s a creak as you push open that old door to the Arch-Mage’s office. You swear the thing has been here since the Spire was first erected. Like almost everything else in this old tower, it needed to be replaced centuries ago. It’s cool in the small circular office despite the roaring fireplace, brisk air coming in through gaps in the windows. Warm light from the rising sun refracts through the myriad of crystals that decorate your mother’s desk.

Pink, blue, purple, and green lights dance along books and scrolls. A dried-out quill rests atop an empty inkwell, a self-reminder to the Iovita matriarch that she needs to refill her ink for another day of signing admission and rejection letters for the coming semester. Said matriarch sits in her high-backed chair, silver eyes trained unblinkingly on you the moment you enter her office.

“You rang?” You smile, prompting her to smile faintly, reflexively. That sleek black phone of yours is pulled out of the pocket of your cardigan and waved for emphasis before being stuffed back in alongside chewing gum and candy wrappers. Even with your cavalier attitude, you know something is amiss. Your mother doesn’t just call you to her office for no reason. You try to remember if you pranked any magisters recently.

“Have a seat,” Decima instructs, eyes downcast and attention not focused on you in the slightest. A clink of metal on metal reaches your ears, a key unlocking a drawer in her desk. Eyes alight on the crystal glass that sits before her, ice cubes nestled inside and ready for the whiskey. Oh. So, this is going to be something serious if your mother is breaking out the hard liquor.  _Day drinking_? You prepare yourself for the worst.

What have you done recently that might warrant serious punishment? There’s that student who you zapped with the weakest lightning spell you could muster. But it was in self-defense! You have a bruise on your back left from where the guy shoved you into a bookcase in the library! So,  _surely_  he wouldn’t say anything since the proof stacks up against him. Anything else? Any magisters you might have crossed?

The sound of liquid pouring into the glass snaps you out of your thoughts. Your mother is so eerily quiet, so contemplative, that you’re put on edge. Sat across from her, fingers picking at your pants, you ask, “What’s this about, mother?”

“Hm? Oh.” Decima looks as though she actually forgot you were there for a second. The crystal glass hangs from lithe fingers, gently swung from side to side so the golden liquid sloshes and swirls, ice clinking softly against the crystal. Decima Iovita isn’t one to dally or mince words. So all of this?  _Dallying_? Your mother is setting you on the fast-track to an anxiety attack. You nearly die when she confesses, “I want to talk to you about your father.”

“Talk to me about  _who_  now?”

“Fidelis Amato. A daemon hunter.”

For a while, you just stare at your mother, brow furrowed. That name means nothing to you but it should mean everything. Yet after all this time? Somehow, it feels like the window for this opportunity closed a long time ago. You’re seventeen, for crying out loud! You’d only been asking about your father for nearly half your life only to get shut down time and time again. So, what’s changed? You ask just that.

“I’ve noticed that you’ve been checking out the daemonology books from the library, (y/n),” Decima sips her whiskey, “and that’s been drawing quite a lot of attention.”

You don’t understand how you looking at books of daemons is suspicious or might put some people on edge. There are rumors about you that even  _you_  haven’t heard- the resident spymaster of the Spire. So, you’re speaking from a place of complete ignorance when you reply, “It should be standard supplemental reading material for biology courses. Those creatures inhabit this world alongside the  _prettier_  fauna.”

Decima all too eagerly skirts around the issue that directly links you and daemons. Instead, your mother whisks a strand of silvery blonde hair behind her ear and explains, “There’s more to your interest in daemons than simply looking at them from a biological perspective. I know you learned of your father’s occupation.”

“And because I learned something about him from someone other than you,  _now_  you want to talk about him?” Shoulders roll back and you slouch in your chair. “Why? Do you want to control the narrative? Are you afraid I’ll learn something distasteful about my father? About…  _Fidelis_?” Gods that name feels so strange on your tongue, like a foreign word that requires years of practice to actually perfect the pronunciation of.

Silver eyes simmer from beneath pale lashes. Yes.  _Yes_ , Decima wants to control the narrative around her deceased lover. She doesn’t want his name in the mouths of those who conspired to have him killed. She doesn’t want his memory turned to poison in her child’s ear. She doesn’t want you to know that the Spire is the reason why you had to grow up without a father. But if you know  _this_?

Decima knows her little mageling well enough to know that you’ve inherited all of the bad aspects of her father  _and_  yours. You’ve a flagrant lack of respect for authority and a temper that knows no bounds- a dangerous trait for an Iovita mage. While Tacitus channeled his mental energy into controlled spells and often went out on the grounds to blow off steam (and blow up boulders), you’ve never done the sort. Decima knows that it’s all building up.

And if she tells you about how the Spire wronged you?

Under that perfectly collected exterior, Decima is well aware of her own child’s volatility. Hell, you sent a magister through a damn window when you were a  _child_. Luckily the accident was on a low floor, but the Iovita matriarch doesn’t need another incident to turn you into more of an uncontrollable monster in the eyes of the magisters. She wants you safe. And safe means lying by omission. Safe means turning your father into a warning- another lesson.

Yet she’ll tell you about your father like she’s telling you the whole truth. Whiskey will go in and a brief story will come out.

Decima gives you a pointed look, one that tells you to watch your tone. “I’m telling you now because I’d hoped you wouldn’t follow in his footsteps. He had such a fascination with daemons and he’d get a thrill from exploring dangerous caves and all sorts of locales. I didn’t want you to get distracted from your duties.”

“So you think I’ll make the leap from reading about daemons to actively hunting them?” Skepticism practically oozes out of your pores. “Mother, have a bit more faith in me. Though the gods know I’d love nothing more than to get out of here, I’m fully committed to Prince Noctis. I won’t abandon him to try and emulate a man I never knew.”

The way your mother looks at you after you say that about your father? Six, you need that whiskey more than her. Hurt flashes in those silver eyes, as if you wronged her rather than Fidelis with that statement. She realizes now that this was a mistake; that keeping your father’s memory from you, keeping it close and safe to her heart, was a mistake. Because he’s a stranger to you and it’s all her fault.

“Would you like to hear about him now?” Decima queries. That tone of hers is flat, inflectionless. You’ve unwittingly put her in a foul mood with that one flippant statement. Though, she isn’t upset with  _you_. She’s hating herself for trying to protect you from the truth of your father’s fate and for trying to avoid reopening old wounds. What good has it done her, she wonders. Absolutely none.

“Of course.” And  _of course_  your response is practically blurted out. Sure, you find this talk very odd considering you’d asked about your father what feels like millions of times only to be met with silence or a handful of words, but you aren’t about to let this opportunity pass you by. You’re eager to turn this stranger into someone more familiar- someone he  _should’ve_  been. Hearsay can only give you so much.

More whiskey is poured. Your mother’s brief story is interspersed with sips of whiskey and long glances at the fireplace and out of the window. Not once does she really look at you. Not once are you allowed to interject with questions or comments. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, because Decima Iovita doesn’t enjoy speaking about her murdered lover. Not even with her own child.

“I met your father before I became a magister. I’d just graduated from the Spire and was living at home before joining. Like Drusa, he happened to stumble across the house your grandfather had kept for me and your Aunt Lysandra out in the Duscaen wilderness. Fidelis and Drusa are-  _were_ very similar to each other, really. Bold, honest, and adventurous. His honor was steadfast. Truly, (y/n), your father was an honorable man. He was unparalleled in that respect.

“When we first crossed paths, he was pursuing a pack of sabertusks. Fidelis was surprised to find people living so far from any major settlements like Lestallum, but he played off his shock. He informed me that he was going to hunt necromancers come nightfall… I suppose he was trying to impress me but at the time I thought he was foolhardy. Fidelis thought  _that_  was funny. He always found others’ concern for him humorous.

“Your father was an optimist; so sure that  _everything_  would work out. I honestly don’t know why he was like that, to tell the truth. He’d been moderately injured by those sabertusks and I was positive the necromancers might kill him, which was why I accompanied him on his hunt despite your aunt’s caterwauling. I healed him first, of course. That shocked him, too. He kept coming around after that. Somehow, his hunts  _miraculously_ ended up on my doorstep.

“Fidelis had a good heart. I thought he was a little odd at first. After those hunts that always happened to be in the vicinity of my home, he’d bring me bouquets of wild flowers and once he used poison sumac as decoration. I told him that with his great lack of knowledge on the local flora, it was a miracle that he hadn’t died yet. He thought that was  _hilarious_. Honestly, he could find the humor in anything, really.

“He was heroic. Foolish but heroic. Fidelis knew the danger and yet he persisted with his hazardous occupation in the name of the king. He said he wanted to make the world a better, safer place for his fellow countrymen. His father before him had been a monster hunter and he’d perished on a hunt. Fidelis was orphaned as a teenager but continued his family’s legacy despite his loss.

“Which, as you might expect, is why I was apprehensive about telling you all of this. I know how dutiful you are, (y/n), and how much family legacies mean to you. But the world has enough hunters with tragic tales. There are enough heroes out there losing their lives and leaving their loved ones behind. Though I loved your father with all my heart and I respected and admired his courage, I don’t want you to end up like him.

“The lonesome hunter who left everything and everyone behind to die alone for the sake of others. Because, (y/n), your father  _did_  die alone. Though I would like to say that I only have fond memories of him, it was always one more hunt with Fidelis. Even when he knew he was going to be a father. All he gave you was a name. It was a  _suggestion_ , actually. We’d argued over your name. So, I suppose he didn’t even leave you that much in the end.”

Funny how remembering someone can stir up old regrets. Decima had warned Fidelis about the Spire. When she began working as a magister, he would visit like any other magister’s spouse. All eyes were on him and his crooked smile. All eyes watched him hold her hand and kiss her cheek. And she indulged him because she so rarely got to see her heroic hunter. She indulged him and helped seal his fate.

Which is why she so very rarely indulges  _you_.

His memory is clouded with regret. Thoughts of opportunities passed by and moments lost. Of foolish arguments that never should have happened. Fidelis had actually fooled Decima with his grandstanding- the same grandstanding that you seem to have inherited. She really believed that he was an unstoppable force for good. All of his lofty talk, his bravery? It made him seem immortal. Decima thought she would have him forever.

Unfinished business. That’s what it is. Love cut down in its prime. It haunts her like a ghost. She hears him in your laughter, sees him in the determined glint in your eye, and she wonders what could have been. All it does is keep her from moving on. Closure is something that Decima will never have. Not with Fidelis, not with Tacitus, and not with Lysandra. In the end, it might have been a mercy for her to die moments before Regis.

You’re quiet, watching your mother brood. A brooding Decima Iovita is a strange sight: Placid face, stiff posture, but obviously inebriated. It’s concerning to see that she allowed herself to get moderately drunk in the morning. It’s the only thing that made you hold your tongue during her brief talk about your father. Those silver eyes are glassy and her lips are pulled into a slight grimace.

Despite her obvious displeasure, you feel the need to ask something. Because this chat? It wasn’t wholly satisfying. It was still bare bones and no flesh, even if your mother attempted to give the illusion of description. It’s the same old, same old with a few more details thrown in to fool you. But you are your mother’s child. You aren’t easily fooled. Tongue darts out to lick your lips before you ask, slowly and carefully, “How did he die?”

That slow, careful way of speaking is all for naught. Because your mother snaps back, “He was a daemon hunter, (y/n). I’d like to think that after years of receiving the best education in Lucis, the answer might be obvious to you.”

She wants you to believe that he was killed by daemons. She doesn’t want you to know that he’d been found in a lake by his fellow hunters. She doesn’t want you to know that his death hadn’t been quick, that it had been made to last. She doesn’t want you to know that she had been responsible because she’d been young and foolish, that she’d underestimated the lengths the Spire would go to in order to make the Iovitas suffer.

“Do you have any pictures of him?” Your tone is far less careful now, mildly irritated by the attitude your manners got you. Back is ramrod straight- like your natural defense mechanism against hostility. It’s the Iovita defense mechanism, really: To look regal and imposing, stony-faced and icy-eyed.

“I only have one,” Decima informs you, gaze cast down to where she pulls out a drawer in her desk and rummages around. An old polaroid is slid face-down across the desk to you, almost as if she doesn’t want to see it. “Be careful with it.”

“Of course,” you barely murmur, unable to hide how eager you are to see the face of the father you never had. Hands actually shake, heart skips a beat as you flip over the photo to see your mother, young and with short hair, sitting next to a strange man. You don’t recognize where they are. It’s some… gas station? The man in the photo has long black hair tied in a braid and honey-brown eyes. He’s tan and tall with a crooked smile that makes him look impish.

Some strange creature squeezes your heart in its spindly little hand.

The fact that you look nothing like him? Somehow, that hurts. But it doesn’t really hurt you. Rather, you hurt  _for_  him. There’s nothing left of him in this world. There’s nothing to remind you of him- though, there’d be no memory to be shaken up anyway, you suppose. But it feels unfair all the same. It makes you feel detached. It’s a very isolating thought. You already don’t resemble your mother. But to not resemble your own father, either?

The photo is flipped back over and you slide it back across the desk. Wordlessly, your mother returns it to the drawer. You’re quiet a moment before finally saying, “Thank you for telling me this, mother. I-”

“Classes should be starting soon,” she interrupts, eyes trained on her glass. “Don’t be late.”

You want to ask more questions. Want to know what foods he liked, what the funniest joke he ever told your mother was, and if he liked reading and watching movies. You want to know if you’re like him in more ways than being defiant or the litany of other traits that constantly get rehashed like new material. You want to  _know him_. But you don’t ask any of this. Instead, you stand up, make your way to the door, and give your mother a quick nod.

“Of course.”


	31. Heart to Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With regard to the unresolved angst surrounding a coeurl and your first dance with death, I present to you this fluffy, pointless, unnecessary, “““lore””” filled fic.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Mild Angst  & Fluff, Squats in Leather Pants, The Reader's Food Crimes Against Humanity, When Proving a Point Goes Wrong, Catharsis Without Crying

**Heart to Heart**

There are stages to death. You didn’t really know that before you _kinda_ died and you only do some research into it in order to take some of the heat off of you with regard to that minor,  _minor_  slip-up. Old books are pulled out for this occasion. They’re weathered with the covers flaking up and the corners all blunted and bent. Not a one doesn’t have a cracked spine, a bit of a pet peeve of yours with regard to book care. But I digress. The books are old. End of story.

You’re honestly not sure  _why_  you even brought these books with you when you left the Spire. Okay, well you kinda do. Though you were essentially being rushed out of the door because the prince had left Insomnia and had yet to call on you, leading everyone to fear he had no intention of picking up a mage he didn’t need, you had hastily packed what you thought your royal charge might think was cool. So, like, you’d hoped if he saw you reading it he’d think you were  _neat_.

In your nerdy defense, that’s what gets people to like other people in the Spire: Reading obscure or interesting literature. What’s an even bigger magnet for attention is reading stuff that has to be deciphered first. But I digress, yet again. The books you packed are old but not old enough to require supplemental material. They’re a hodgepodge of philosophy, theology, and magic. They opine about the nature of life and death and in them you come across a bizarre concept: Stages of death.

It’s something that the daemon you were tricked into summoning will mention in passing with regard to necromancy. There’s separation of body and soul, decay of body, decay of soul, and ascension of soul. Three of those can lead to a vegetative or thrall-like state and one is the most commonly used to refer to death. Typically the body is looked at to proclaim death since it’s difficult to gauge if the soul is still around unless one has a sense for that type of thing.

So… Mages? Spiritually sensitive types of people? For everyone else, death is indicated physically by the body. You’d thought that was how it went, after all. But in your quest to tell everyone to chill out and stop treating you like a child, to stop saying that you “died” when you’re here in the flesh, you stumble across this information. That’s how you gain a lot of your knowledge, truth be told; to prove a point or rub something in someone else’s face.

Everyone thinks you’re just doing regular ol’ arcane research. This is done in the middle of your manic research spree, after all, so it’s not like they can differentiate between when you’re doing research for your advisory duties or for funsies. All anyone knows is that it’s as annoying as usual. And by “annoying” I mean they’re irritated that your hyper-fixation clearly impairs your daily functioning since you forget to eat or sleep.

Again, in your nerdy defense, that’s a character trait that’s praised in the Spire of Duscae. No sleep? Skipping meals? My, my, you must be a dedicated scholar! Is it healthy? Well, no. But considering that’s all you were raised around, considering it’s the ideal that you were told to strive toward, it’s not as if you can unbiasedly appraise your own behavior and confidently say that you’ll change your habits. Besides, in the end it provides you with the tools to prosper.

But in the meantime? When you aren’t helping save the world and are instead sitting in the middle of camp while Iggy offers you coffee for maybe the fifth time in a row without you hearing? It’s just an annoying trait that makes everyone else feel like you’re isolated from them while you indulge in it. The good news is that after cross-referencing a few theories to be sure that you won’t actually make a sound argument against  _yourself_ , you’re done.

“Hey, Ignis?” You suddenly question in the middle of the brunet yet again asking if you’d like a damn cup of coffee. Eyes snap up from the old book on your lap to the strategist’s verdant gaze. The book is picked up and offered to him like a gift. With a wide smile, you wonder, “Can you read this aloud for me?”

He’s puzzled, to say the least. Listen, it’s not like you allow just  _anyone_  to touch your books. You’re surprisingly territorial of them, getting your hackles raised whenever Noct picks one up to move it out of his spot beside you when you’re all having dinner. Or, gods forbid, when Mr. I Have To Pick Everything Of Interest Up And Probably Touch Stuff At Museums Argentum gets his careless paws on one of your books, you practically hiss like a damn cat.

So, Iggy is tense and intrigued. Possibly honored? Maybe honored. But you have this sweet expression on your face that tells him he’s going to be irritated with whatever it is you want him to do. Look, everybody already knows that when you make these kind, open expressions that makes their hearts melt, it means you’re up to no good. Usually Noct ends up losing his dessert, Gladio gives you half the seasoning packet for his noodles, Iggy allows you to taste test stuff, or Prom is guilted out of chips.

You’re almost like the group’s pet. Like a big-eyed cat or a puppy that can sucker anyone out of their food with simply a look. But right now, at the crack of dawn when everyone is lazing around camp waiting on breakfast, there’s no food to be had. Which makes the sudden deployment of the most agreeable expression you own all the more suspect. Nothing good can come of this yet there goes Iggy, making his way across camp to take the book from you.

Glasses are adjusted on the bridge of his nose, green eyes blinking a few times at the sentence you used a torn strip of sticky note to highlight. “This here?” Ignis clarifies, pointing out the line for you to confirm. It’s smack dab in the middle of a massive, intimidating wall of text. Apparently the author or the editor didn’t know how to properly format paragraphs considering that  _one_ paragraph spans a few pages.

“Yeah.” You nod your head once, an eager smile on your face that makes the brunet’s eyes narrow just a tad.

With your confirmation, Iggy adjusts his glasses once more and holds the book aloft in one hand, eyes scanning the words as he reads aloud, catching the attention of the others, “It is therefore my assertion, based on testimonies gathered by magic users and those most sensitive to spiritual affairs, that there is only one death, the true death; that is to say, when the soul separates from the body and subsequently ascends, leaving the body to decay.”

Once finished with reading a statement that’s almost wholly out of context and leaves everyone rather nonplussed, considering their minds are on matters like the smell of baking cheese from the breakfast casserole Iggy is making and the quest you’re all undertaking today which will require a jaunt through daemon-infested mines, nobody gets your point. Your point is totally lost on all but Iggy, who had already guessed that you were taking the piss.

The second Ignis hands back the book, you drop it like a mic. “Boom. There you have it. I didn’t  _die_ , dorks. I- Oh, gosh, I shouldn’t have dropped that book. It’s so old.”

Aaaaaand now everyone is irritated on top of being hungry. Totally unimpressed, Ignis crosses his arms as he watches the group’s mage carefully pick up an ancient and priceless tome that they dropped for comedic effect. Honestly, it’s irritating that you’re the only one who didn’t take your run-in with the coeurl seriously. It’s as you’re brushing sediment from the pages that Ignis snaps, “Is this really the hill that you want to die on, (y/n)?”

Wide eyes blink up at him. “Huh?”

From across the camp, Gladio grunts as he does squats in leather pants, “Nobody got mad at you for dyin’. It’s not the point that ya didn’t ‘die’ by some old scholar’s standards, Magey. It’s that you got hurt at all.”

“And that you blew us all off when we worried about you,” Prompto pipes up.

Even barely lucid, Noctis points out, “Nobody has been getting on your case ‘cause you died. That makes no sense, (y/n). We only got mad ‘cause you made a huge joke out of it.”

“Made a joke out of it after we all went through hell thinking you were  _dead_  dead,” Prompto jumps in yet again. Listen, he  _lives_  for this therapeutic type of stuff. Airing out grievances? Clearing the air? His zeal for kumbaya talks is matched by none except  _maybe_  Gladiolus. Because those two? They can’t stand when they’re out of sync with other people. Being out of sync means more chances for miscommunication and awkward situations.

But the Shield and the sharpshooter have vastly different approaches. Prom is all touchy feely with softly spoken words and a hand on the shoulder or knee. Gladio is pretty confrontational in the beginning but, once he’s sure he’s on the same page as the other person,  _then_  he starts making jokes and bringing a bit of levity to the situation with shoulder punches and pats on the back. They balance out Ignis and Noctis. But you threw a wrench in the system.

Noct and Iggy are fairly soft spoken with regard to personal conflict. They tend to skirt around issues and wait for the other person to address the situation. For Noct, it’s because he’s awkward that he waits. For Iggy, it’s because he wants the other person to save face that he waits. Which is no good for someone like you whose motto with regard to conflict can basically be summed up as: Avoid and deflect. You’re like a godsdamned politician.

However, in your attempt to prove them all “wrong” about them thinking that you’re fragile or for being mad at you for taking a killing blow that was intended for Noct, which, not surprisingly,  _none_  of them even thought, you’ve opened a door for conversation. And, boy, do they all jump at the opportunity. What can they say? You’ve pretty much left them with no recourse with your constant deflection that this feels like a godsend.

Sitting back in your chair, you hold the book close to your chest and murmur, “Oh.”

Well, this is embarrassing. All this time, you’ve been working under the assumption that they were all mad at you because you had “died” and that’s mostly true. But the difference is that they were upset that you were so blasé, like your life meant so little that you could joke about the incident so soon after being resuscitated. They were upset that you didn’t  _allow_  them to be shaken by the situation. You denied them the right to have concerns like you had the power to do so.

Meanwhile, you’ve been here thinking they were mad ‘cause your “death” meant you weren’t up to snuff with their standards. So, in your attempt to prove that you didn’t really die and therefore didn’t totally blow it as arcane advisor, Arch-Mage, and as an Iovita, you’ve only exacerbated those frustrated feelings of theirs. They’ve been concerned with your well-being while you’ve been concerned with living up to the outrageous standards set by your predecessors.

The longer the silence at camp draws out, the hotter your cheeks go. And Ignis Scientia, the King of Saving Face, is quick to nip that shame in the bud the second he realizes that you now understand everyone’s position. With a kind smile, the tactician gestures behind him toward the makeshift kitchen and suggests, “Now that that’s cleared up and we all know where we stand, why don’t you taste test this casserole for me, (y/n)?”

“Sounds good!” The smile on your face could rival the brightness of the sun.

Cheesy goodness is stuffed into your mouth, maybe a bit larger a portion than Iggy was actually wanting you to eat. As you make sounds of pleasure and give the blushing brunet a thumbs up, Prom saunters on over and leans against the table that Iggy set out to prepare breakfast on. Bright blue eyes appraise you, looking pleased. “Y’know, I’m glad we sorta talked. I’ve been dyin’ for a heart to heart with you for a while now, (y/n). Thanks.”

“Wha- Heart to heart?” You choke on the breakfast casserole for the sake of a gag and fake an aghast expression, hand delicately placed to your chest like you’re grasping at pearls. “How  _dare_  you? I’ve given you no such thing!”

Across camp, Gladio tells you to work harder on your comedy skills and Noct agrees, a lazy smirk on his face. You tell Gladiolus that you hope he busts the seams in the seat of his pants and that gets the Shield to pause in the middle of his squats to frown at you. Before war can break out with Prompto coming to your defense only to get chased around camp by Gladio for his efforts, Iggy serves up breakfast and you all sit around camp, trading awful jokes and going over the day’s schedule.


	32. 12. Teeth (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, Bittersweet Mage, Mild Sexual Refs, Intense Tense Flippage, Mage Magnetism, Noct Doesn’t Have Game, Like at All, Neither Do You, But Y’all Manage, Sometimes the Truth is Worse than a Lie, And Half-Truths are Even Worse, Angst and Fluff Sandwich, Prompto is too Awkward for Your Brazen Flirtation, Astral Shade, Iggy is Smooth AF, You’re as Smooth as Sandpaper, The Cringe is Real, Too Much Innuendo, Gladio Needs to Ease Up, Don’t Dish it if You Can’t Take it

** 12\. Teeth **

** Noctis **

It’s a long time coming, this confrontation. It’s the first of many. However, this one is far more tame in nature than the ones that follow. It’s benevolent; comes from a good place. Maybe it comes from an inquisitive place as well, but your well-being is at the forefront. Because you started this journey so reticent but you grew to be as loud and vivacious as you could be. More than if you had stayed at the Spire, that’s for sure. Of course, you remain as acerbic and witty as you’ve always been. 

So, your sudden reclusiveness, that shying away back into being that “hermit mage,” doesn’t go unnoticed by your royal charge. Noctis is accustomed to a certain dynamic by this point. He’s used to your ribbing, your food thievery, your tutelary role, and your flirtation. You’ve spoiled him with your attention. And he’s spoiled you with his own teasing as well as his quickly adopted role as your confidant. To have you silently withdraw hurts. To have you refuse to meet his eye is worrying. To have you constantly defer to him, calling him “Majesty” rather than snarking at him, is like an invisible dagger in his gut. 

With a smile, you pull away. With your gaze averted, you say you’re fine. However, Noctis isn’t dumb. He’s sure he knows what’s wrong and he feels responsible. He and the others know that your issue rests with Ardyn. That’s given. You’d turned to stone with venom on your tongue the moment you were in the redhead’s presence. But Noct knows of another issue. 

Ramuh.  


The _Fulgurian_. 

His trial occurred at possibly the worst time for you. So wrapped up in the confusing feelings that Ardyn never failed to evoke in you, you were confronted by the Astral that your family had always called their god. Some of your ancestors even referred to him as your divine summoner. All of that poking and prodding; flashes of those golden eyes in tandem with white teeth; threats and well-wishes. At every turn Ardyn put you on the spot. He kept you on your toes. It was like you two never fell out of step. Except that _now_? Now you’re in service to your kingdom. It was the one thing he always needled you about: 

“Are you _really_ going to serve the people who let your family die?” 

“Do you _honestly_ still pray to the ‘god’ who turned his back on your family?” 

When you’d resolutely answered in the affirmative to both, as you always did and as you always will, there was no longer contempt in his eyes for the foolish child and their little fantasies. No. There was malice for the disobedient mage and their unbreakable honor. Because outside of the Spire, you pose a threat. You’re no longer the mageling trapped in the old college who squeezed his hand goodbye and wished that they could go with him on his journeys. You’re the gifted enchanter, the competent herbalist, the novice necromancer, and the accidental summoner who serves the King of Lucis. 

Too loyal for your own good, much like your ancestors. A double-edged sort of trait. It benefits all but you. And Ardyn knows that you’ll burn for Noctis Lucis Caelum the way _they_ did for him. He could see it in those sad eyes of yours when you first met. With a glance you took him back in time. And he’d wanted to stay there... But there’s no going back. Forward is the only direction and you two are on a collision course. Ardyn won’t let you hold him back. And when you saw Ramuh for the first time, you almost let Ardyn hold _you_ back. Because all of that self-doubt that he’s so skilled at cultivating rushed forth at the sight of the Astral. 

Where you thought you’d expertly dodged each attack, the wounds manifested from seemingly nowhere like paper-cuts you didn’t know you had until you washed your hands. The pain was comparable enough to such a silly simile. It was bearable but burdensome all at once. You’d been rendered speechless at the sight of the Fulgurian. He was a vision in the darkened sky, highlighted by lightning. He was more than you ever imagined. Throat tightened, full of emotion, and you nearly dropped your staff- nearly dropped to your knees, too. _Yet_... 

Awe slowly twisted into contempt as those yellow eyes gazed down upon your prince. For a second you were that inimical childhood friend you so admired; bitter and resentful. You wondered what your mother would say if she were here. And, like it always did, the pain of her loss hit you so suddenly. Always like a fresh wound; blindsiding you, leaving you breathless, leaving you angry. 

You never got to properly mourn your mother. Her body was neither burned nor buried as far as you know. All you were able to do was light some incense away from camp early in the morning, before anyone had awakened, and pray to Ramuh to put her spirit to rest. The unworthiness of her death has been and always will be a yoke about your neck. It will never cease to embitter you. 

“ _How dare you offer your help now? How dare you ask for more sacrifice after all that’s been lost?_ ” 

It wasn’t what you’d thought you would think upon first seeing your god. You’d hoped to be more gracious, more reverent. You’d hoped to be as worthy as the people whose words you read- the ancestors who were so devoted right until the end. But none of them lived to see him. Only you. Why? Then Ramuh _looked_ at you. You’d stared into the eyes of your family’s creator and all you could think about was how your family had been slaughtered. One by one. Down to _you_. What should have been the highlight of your life was soured by the reality of Ramuh’s inaction. Because he’s real. And he did _nothing_. 

Yet you bent your knee and dropped your head. The tears fell. “Thank you.” 

It was acrid on your tongue. Yes, _thank you_ for letting so many people die. _Thank you_ for leaving in the first place. _Thank you_ for aiding Noctis. Aiding, _not_ protecting. Though you _are_ grateful that Ramuh forged a covenant with Noctis, you know that neither Ramuh nor the other Astrals  will be doing any protecting. Ardyn’s words haunted you in that moment. But you turned bitterness into determination. Because the Astrals hardly have a good track-record for watching over humanity and divine intervention always comes at great cost. So, it will be _you_ who will be doing the intervening. No, you don’t liken yourself to an Astral... because _you’ll_ actually get the job done. 

“ _Pride goeth before a fall._ ” 

Yes, well... At least when you fall, you’ll know that you did _everything_ in your power to do right by your friends and family. And Noctis feels responsible for your dour mood. He thinks you took it as a personal slight that _he_ forged a covenant with _your family’s_ god. However, Specs assured him there was no issue, that your family’s devotion was the Fulgurian’s initial covenant, after all. But _still_... The subservient nature of your family’s relationship with his has always rubbed him the wrong way. The raven-haired royal is unaware that your wounds cut deeper than Ramuh’s covenant. In fact, if he’d asked you straight, you would’ve told him yourself that you couldn’t care less about it. He can’t bring himself to ask you directly, though. So, he waits. 

He’s a heavy sleeper. So, the fact that you always manage to rouse him from the depths of his slumber isn’t something he takes lightly. You’re careful, of course; always mindful of the royal as you shrug on your cardigan, gear up, and exit the caravan silently. Still, blue eyes flutter open and watch your silhouette. You leave so often these days. He’s worried. Are you finally meeting with your... _visitor_? Curiosity has him following you this time around at- What? _4:00 a.m._? He does a double-take at the time on his phone. You’re getting up at-? Exhaustion crashes into Noctis like a wave and he damns you- damns _himself_ for caring so damn much about you. 

When normally he would let you do your business (whatever it is), something has him pulling on his boots and tailing you despite how the blankets seem to try and drag him back to bed. By the time he sneaks out of the caravan, you’re nowhere in sight. Blue eyes scan the chocobo post, the trees, the grounds... Nothing. The prince sighs right as tired eyes meet two gleaming ones. Noct smiles and approaches the penned chocobo, mindful of the mud from last night’s drizzle. “Hey there, boy. You see where they went?” He asks quietly, unlocking the pen and opening the door so the bird can exit. 

The second “boy” leaves his mouth, Apricus turns his beak up and looks away. Noct’s lips twitch. Gods, the damn bird is just like you. “Apologies, Lord Apricus the Deathbringer, sir. Can you show me where they went? It’s _dangerous_ out there in the dark.” 

The chocobo’s eyes are like blue flames, filled with determination. But if Noct thinks the dignified bird is going to let _him_ ride him, he has another thing coming. It’s a little odd to walk next to a chocobo guide in the wilderness, but Noct doesn’t say anything for fear of getting bodied by the massive bird that thinks itself a bouncer. A bird bouncer for the mage... There’s a thought. Apricus treads lightly through the dense Nebulawood. Every now and then he pauses, tilts his head, before continuing on. Soon, the duo emerge from the woodlands into a small clearing. A figure kneels in the middle of it, cloaked in a dusky lavender sweater. A thin wisp of smoke trails up into the sky. 

In silence, Noct watches the smoke disappear into the slowly lightening sky. He won’t interrupt your prayer and neither will Apricus... though the chocobo is buzzing to canter up to you and give you a stern peck on the head for going off alone in the dark. He does just that the second you stand up and begin brushing the dirt from your pants. “Ow! What the-?!” Holding the welt on your head, you choke on your words when your eyes land on Noct. “Did... Did you seriously team up with Sunny to hunt me down? Am I still asleep?” 

He smirks. “He was eager to help, especially since it’s dangerous and _stupid_ for you to go off on your own when it’s dark out.” He’s no longer smirking once he finishes chiding you; blue eyes  hooded and lips curved into a bland frown. All he needs to do is- Oh. There he goes. Now he crosses his arms like a disappointed parent. Well, not even your silver tongue can wriggle you out of this. Looks like you won’t be checking on the daemons today and practicing using their abilities. It’s a shame. You’ve managed to get a goblin, a flan, and a bomb. You _had_ an imp but you stored it in your crystal when the others started to feel too oppressive and when you reached out for it, it was gone. 

Where normally you can have Noctis smiling and laughing, his anger is a bit more resilient once his entire body has committed to the emotion. Hunched shoulders, crossed arms, pouting lips, furrowed brow...? He’s giving you the works right now. So, you go for your ace in the hole. You give Apricus a gentle pat on his neck as you pass, crossing the clearing to stand in front of the prince. Level with that blue hellfire gaze, you reach your hands up and pinch his cheeks before telling him how cute he is when he pouts. Immediately he’s blushing and swatting your hands away, gaze turned away and no longer serious. “Cut it out,” he gripes, cheeks the color of strawberry milk. 

A wicked grin spreads across your face at his instant reaction. “Tch. You’re _so_ easy.” 

“What?” 

At his mildly offended tone, you rock back on your heels and duck your head so you can watch him critically from beneath your eyelashes. “We need to work on that, Noctis. When you become king, you can’t be so easily disarmed by flirtation.” 

“So, is _that_ what you’re doing?” Pink blossoms into red. Your tone? Your bluntness about the intent of your teasing? That look in your eyes? Your _proximity_? Where at first Noct was groggy, stumbling through the woods half-asleep, now he’s wide awake. He sees the challenge in your eyes and rises to meet it. “You’re training me to ward off pesky mages?” Asks Noct, blue eyes shining from beneath dark bangs. 

Luckily for you, Apricus is bored by your antics with the prince. At first, the chocobo would register Noct’s tone as a slight toward you and he’d come barreling across battlefields or wherever you were flirting to squeeze himself between you and the prince. Now? He’s accustomed to the games. Noct still isn’t. Always blushing like he’s hearing your suggestive tone for the first time. 

“Mmhm.” Hand reaches forward one more time but Noct doesn’t knock it away. Fingertip pokes his scarlet cheek and you muse, “Looks like we need to increase your workload. I’ve gotta shift your training into maximum overdrive.” 

“ _Stop_ ,” Noct groans, laughter ringing softly through the quiet, early-morning air. Blue eyes have turned to crescents at your expense. It’s a struggle not to grab your hand and just hold it. “You’re so lame.” 

“What? Me? Lame?” You scoff, exaggerating your offense, one hand on your chest like he just stabbed you in the heart. 

He smirks. “Yes. You. _Super_ lame.” Noct prods your chest for emphasis and you gasp like it’s some finishing move that just ended you. Behind you, Apricus cocks his head and Noct blanches. Seeing your prince’s apprehensive expression, you snort and throw your arm across his shoulders before signaling for Apricus to follow you into the woods. Twigs and brush crunch under the chocobo’s feet as he follows you two through the Nebulawood. 

“You never cease to devastate my highly externalized concept of self-worth.” Eyes look up to the sky and you hum, “It’s still too early for breakfast. We’re near a fishing spot if you’re interested. It’s a bit of a walk but the spot is between here and Alstor Slough.” 

“Y-Yeah. Sounds good.” In an effort to ignore the way your arm has electricity shooting throughout his body, Noct asks, “Um... There’s bass there, right?” And he wants to die for asking something so lame. He grows hot under your touch. 

A snort escapes you and you barely fight to keep it from erupting into outright laughter. “Yes. _Alstor_ Bass. Want fish for breakfast, Majesty?” 

“I like fish...” 

Oh, wow. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to refrain from laughing at the adorably awkward royal. His social awkwardness only serves to feed your bravado. It’s a strange equilibrium that you two have wordlessly worked out together: If he’s shy, you’re bold, and vice versa. Air grows thicker with humidity as the sun rises. The sky transitions from blue, to lavender, to orange; leaves and branches casting shadows across you and Noctis. You keep your arm around him but slowly let it drop when you see the rickety old pier. Noct watches as you hurry off ahead to go and look around at the shoreline. 

“What’re you doing?” Noct asks, barely keeping himself from instinctively patting Apricus as the chocobo brushes by him. No one is allowed to pet the temperamental bird except you at the risk of getting fingers nipped and a welt on the head. A beaked smack on the head was Noct’s reward for liking animals. 

“Lures always turn up at the water’s edge,” you answer distractedly, crouched down to better see the ground. “See anything, Sunny?” The regal chocobo’s silence is your answer and you sigh, “Oh, well.” 

“Lures? They sell them at the shop,” Noct points out, gesturing to the very obvious shack with the very bored looking shopkeep. The wooden pier creaks as he walks out onto it, unconcerned about the less than stable noises. 

Apricus sits down at the water’s edge while you cautiously follow your raven-haired pal out to the end of the pier. “Everything is better when it’s free.” 

“Cheapskate.” 

“That’s a strange way of saying ‘prudent.’” 

Noct snorts and you sit down on the pier right behind him like you always do. Bag is placed to your side and your grimoire is exhumed from its dark depths and you hunch over to read while your prince fishes. It’s an easy silence that follows. Until he speaks. And there’s tension hidden there. “What were you doing before Apricus and I found you?” Noct queries, trying to keep his tone light. Blue eyes remain on the water’s surface. He knows how easily you can shut someone down- with a smile and words so venomous they can give someone blood poisoning. 

“Praying, obviously,” is your simple reply. But you find that you start to re-read the same line from Aela’s entry. Mouth grows hot, stomach twists. You know Noctis isn’t stupid. You know he knows that you do far more than pray when you leave them all in the dead of night and come creeping back at sunrise. 

“Praying for what?” 

“You sure are nosy, aren’t you? Do you ask people what they wish for when they blow out their birthday candles?” At the unamused look that he casually tosses you over his shoulder, you sigh and mark your place in the grimoire with one of Sunny’s pale yellow feathers, “Do you really want to know?” 

“Yeah.”  


“I was praying for reassurance.” 

That’s not a complete lie. Sometimes, you hope your mother will answer you when you pray. Though you have it set in your mind the path that you’ll take, the lengths you’re ready and willing to go to... you’re afraid of doing it alone and without guidance. You’re nervous. Because binding magic? That’s no joke. And it has no punchline when your soul is thrown into the mix. However, you know that Ramuh will never deign to answer _you_. You’re _just_ an Iovita. The _worst_ Iovita, you tell yourself. With no heroic feats under your belt, with no life experience or entry in the grimoire, you’re nobody. A nobody who is secretly shaming your family with the things you do in the darkness. The things you do with _daemons_. 

You pray for guidance. Should’ve been more specific on who you wanted it from. While Ramuh hears your prayers but does not heed them, there’s someone who waits eagerly in the shadow. Unblinking yellow eyes watch closely- as closely as they’ve always watched since the day you were born. They wonder if you’ll scream and cry and lash out like the last time they came to your aid. 

“Reassurance? For what?” When you don’t immediately respond, Noct asks, “Are you okay?” 

Mouth opens immediately to respond and then your mind catches up. What a strange social convention. You’re expected to say that you’re fine even if you aren’t. Because it’s impolite to impose your issues on others- especially if they’re completely blameless in what’s going _wrong_ with you. But Noctis is done with your little isolation games. He knows better than most that internalizing everything never really works. These past few days, you’ve been more standoffish than usual. Hell, you didn’t even _blink_ when yet another imperial base was infiltrated to get the Regalia and you were all confronted by Ardyn _yet again_. And something about how the chancellor looked at you didn’t and still _doesn’t_ sit right with Noctis. 

“(y/n). Please answer me.” He still keeps his back to you. It’s for your benefit.  


Breath is barely an audible hiss over the sluggishly lapping water at the shoreline. “Noct, I...” 

He can’t know that you’ve been working on binding magic. Because if you tell him that you’re stealing the corrupted souls of daemons and binding them to yourself in order to summon them, in order to un-bind them, all in the hopes of doing it seamlessly _to yourself_ with _him_ as the recipient of _your_ soul...? You wonder if there’s a less crazy way of phrasing what you’re doing. Sure, you can point to Lumis’ passages on how binding souls awards the recipient with the ability to utilize properties of the bound soul; namely how he’ll be able to hopefully use his magic without limits, but... 

In the very next passage, Lumis warns against this magic. It’s dangerous. You’ll be like a fount of magic to your royal charge but it will _drain you_. As long as he’s in possession of your soul, as long as he uses it, you won’t have the luxury of your usual unlimited magic. Because your soul will no longer be yours. A strange thing to be ripped in two like that. And you know how insane it sounds. But when you try to lie, you find that your silver tongue is turned to lead. While you may be able to get away with deceiving the others, it’s not right for you to lie to Noctis. Not that the others don’t deserve to know the truth, but Noctis is the only one (aside from yourself) who will be directly impacted by your spell. 

On the long road ahead, in his darkest hour, Noctis will have a piece of you to protect him when you can’t be there by his side. 

Heart is somewhere in your throat by the time you manage to eke out a pathetic, “I’m working on  a spell, Noct.” You watch as his line is cast back out, the little whirring sound and the _plop!_ that follows seeming exaggerated by the tension between you two. Though you don’t know it, Noct figures you’re meeting with your daemon. He just doesn’t know what exactly it is that you’re doing. 

“I’m guessing it’s more than just a simple spell if it has you going out at odd hours and has you so stressed,” he finally answers. Shoulders are a hard line. His body is all angles. 

“Stressed?” You echo. 

“You seem stressed, I mean. And you’re praying for reassurance, so...” 

Despite yourself, you smile. Gaze rakes over his form from that raven hair to his dirt-caked boots. He’s too clever for his own good- keeping his back to you like that, so you can’t read him and he can’t inadvertently push you away with the wrong reaction, no matter how subtle. You answer lightly, “Well, the spell is certainly complicated. It’s an enchantment.” 

“What’s so complicated about this enchantment?” Noct is quick to ask, confusion evident in his voice. “You enchant stuff all the time.” 

“S _tuff_ , yes. Inanimate objects. Things without souls.” Fingertips run across the cover of your grimoire. “Souls are tricky. They aren’t easily changed. Yes, they can be corrupted, purified, destroyed, or they can ascend or descend. But all of that takes time and in the absence of time it takes skill and a fuckton of magic.” 

The _very_ dignified snort that leaves Noct seems to echo for ages. The back of his neck goes red at the noise that just escaped him but he plays it off as best as he can. “Just when you start sounding like the arcane advisor, you use ‘fuckton’ as a measurement.” 

“Excuse you,” you scoff haughtily, playing it up, “it _is_ a legitimate form of measurement. You always order a fuckton of fries at Takka’s.” 

“So, you’re going to enchant...? What? Something with a soul?” And the easy atmosphere is crushed as quickly as it came. ‘Cause even though Noct isn’t catching shit, he’s not letting _you_ off the hook. 

“Such a smart young man. Lucis is in good hands,” you tease. “Yes, I’m going to enchant something with a soul.” 

“What?” 

“Me.” 

“Wh-What? _Why_?” He’s a little stunned by how quickly and effortlessly you answer, given _what_ the answer is. There’s no hesitation in your voice. In fact, you say it so confidently, so arrogantly, that he almost feels stupid for questioning you. That’s your way, though. Always so haughty that you make others feel vastly inferior. A defense mechanism. The worst kind. An alienating kind. 

“I need to do my due diligence, of course,” you reply smartly. “I’m nothing if not a fastidious mage and it has come to my attention that this enchantment will solve a lot of problems.” Not the problems you’re thinking of in this moment, of course, and it will create many, many more. But dramatic irony has always seemed to be your family’s bag. 

By this point, Noct has given up on fishing. He can’t concentrate and is losing too many lures trying to question the most evasive person he knows. Funny how you’re so damn dodgy and yet he trusts you. “Is it dangerous? For you, I mean.” At your sober expression when he turns around,  he goes pale. “(y/n), no. I don’t want you doing anything-” 

“Is that going to end in an order, Majesty?” 

His pale brow furrows at the way your face ices over and your tone takes on an edge so fine that it nearly cuts him down right where he stands. “I’m not _ordering_ you to do or not do anything.” 

“Really? Because you just say the word and I’ll stop my research. I’ll give up. I’ll end this. Your wish is my command, Majesty.” 

It’s cruel of you to play off of this insecurity of his. The one that whispers in his ear that you only care about him out of your sense of duty and nothing more. The one that brushes off your flirtation as your playful nature- even when you don’t do it to anyone else, even when he can see something else simmering in your hooded gaze. But you do it anyway. Because you’re an ice-cold Iovita and a Spire mage, to boot. You’ll crush his heart to save the rest of him. Because that pain of his will only be temporary compared to what you know your red-headed friend is capable of. Because he shouldn’t be trying to give you his heart nor you trying to give him yours. 

“Why are you acting like this?”  


“Like what?” You ask, feigning ignorance; head cocked and smile on full display. 

Pale cheeks color in frustration. “Like an ass.”  


“Because I’m doing the best I can.” 

And Ardyn is still under your skin; burrowed deep like a tick that you need to cut and burn out. You’re doing your best but your _best_ is deemed immoral by your ancestors. Each rationalization makes you angry. Because why is it immoral if you do it to yourself? There’s no harm in it, right? Noctis will benefit, right? Then comes Ardyn’s words: A useful tool. You’re using yourself as a means to Noct’s end- _you’re a tool_. It’s almost like he knew you would do this. Each barb at you and your family’s expense was an allusion to what you would do under cover of darkness; what you would do to yourself for king and country. Those seeds of doubt flourish wonderfully but it’s not the flower Ardyn thought he planted. 

This hatred is toward yourself. Not toward Noctis. Oh, how the redhead underestimated the damning influence of the Spire; the nuance of trauma and variability of personal growth. So blinded by your likeness to a dear, dead friend that he overlooked the divergence of character; overlooked a propensity toward internalization over externalization; self-hatred over hatred of others. Where he thought Decima spent limited time with her child and he _was_ correct, he didn’t know you were still momma’s little mage; emulating her selflessness as best you could, trying to be someone she would be proud of. Bitter, yes, but bittersweet. And so sweet on those very few souls who would call you a friend. 

Noctis is quiet a moment longer. Blue eyes hold your gaze steadfastly, the pink drains from his cheeks. So easy. It’s so easy for him to see that though your words have bite you don’t mean it in the slightest. That cruelty is a ruse. A mean-spirited game that he never wanted to be a part of. “When you leave, you’ve been practicing. Right?” 

You don’t even blink. “Yes.”  


“On yourself.”  


“Yes.”  


“If things go wrong with this spell of yours, how badly can you be hurt?” There’s a bit of panic  bleeding into his voice, but he fights to suppress it. You’re too intense. Even sitting there on the pier, at his feet, so low... you’re always so intense. Always so severe. So, when you suddenly smile, panic breaks through. 

It’s with the softest, kindest of smiles that you ask him like you’re quizzing him on herbalism, “Do you know what happens when someone’s soul is destroyed?” 

“No,” breathes Noct. Tense, he watches as you stuff your grimoire into your bag and stand up. Hands brush off your legs, staff is adjusted against your back, and the strap of your bag is tightened against your shoulder and collarbone. It’s all far too casual a routine for this conversation. 

“Neither do I,” you finally admit. “The worst thing that can happen to me is unknown. I can bear that, Noctis, and so can you.” 

“Why is this spell even necessary?” Scoffs Noct, irritated with how you’re trying to normalize this. He can see through your charade. The way you act, the way you stand and talk. Like you’re commenting on the weather and not about screwing with your soul. “What problems will it _supposedly_ solve?” 

“Your birthright comes at a cost.” Shoulders shrug lazily. “Communing with the Astrals comes at a cost. I’m proposing we split the bill.” 

Liar. You’re paying the whole damn tab.  


He shakes his head, raven bangs falling into his eyes. “No. It’s _my_ birthright, (y/n). Don’t do this  for _me_. Don’t do this _to yourself for me_.” 

“Hm. Except everyone is _already_ helping you to reclaim your throne. A kingdom isn’t ruled solely by a king. _I’m_ your advisor- your right hand when it comes to arcane affairs. I’ll only stop this if you command it, Noctis. Otherwise, I’m continuing whether you like it or not.” 

Damn you. _Damn you_ for preying on your friendship and his feelings. For Noctis won’t _ever_ use his authority over you. He’ll let you continue your research. He’ll let you play at whatever Frankensteinian magic you’re doing. But little do either of you know that you’ll be Dr. Frankenstein _and_ his monster by the end of it. 

Pulling out your phone, you glance at the time and inform him, “It’s time to head back. Ignis will be worried.” 

The prince brushes by you wordlessly and Apricus falls into step beside you as you make your way back toward Wiz’s. You’ve given Noctis a lot to think about. Though he appreciates your honesty, he wants you to stop whatever it is you’re doing- because he _still_ doesn’t know what you’re doing. You always do that. You’re vague but you can make someone feel like you’re giving them the whole story. And your eerie expressions don’t assuage any of his fears. But he knows how insecure you are about your position as arcane advisor. An archaic role that you inherited without having to prove yourself, now you’re scrambling to prove yourself at every turn. He just doesn’t know the lengths you’ll go to. In a million years, he’d never guess. 

From the corner of your eye, you see that he’s still tense and brooding. That won’t do. You knew you should’ve just lied and not stressed him out with the truth. To ease the tension that you’re always so wonderful at crafting, you shoot Noct a cheeky smile and snark, “Hey, nerd.” 

“Yeah?” Noct freezes for a split second before scowling. He can’t believe he’s responding to your rude nicknames. Well, he _can_ believe it ‘cause he always does. The prince fires back, “What is it,  dork?” 

You reach out listlessly and pluck a leaf from a plant as you pass by. “What we just talked about? It’s not a big deal, really. It sounds worse than it is, honestly. I don’t want you to worry. My job is to watch your back. And, _my_ , what a back it is.” 

“Shut up. You’re _so_ lame.” But he blushes anyway and laughs.  


“Got you to laugh, though,” you point out triumphantly. “Secondary job.” 

“D’you have any other jobs?” 

“Well... as your mage,” he hates how his heart races when you say dumb things like that, “I’m basically... have you ever heard of a stage mom? I’m basically here to pump you full of Mountain Dew, make sure you stay alive, and that you succeed. My job in a nutshell.” 

Noct narrows his eyes at you and snorts, “Stage mom?” 

“Listen, sometimes my fellow students had weird shit downloaded on their computers and tablets. Usually I was in too much of a rush to be picky about my poison,” you drawl, twirling the leaf between your fingers before letting it flutter to the ground. 

“Poison?” 

At Noct’s curious expression, you explain, “Trash TV, melodramas, true crimes? I’d watch them all. Entertainment was difficult to come by so I’d just watch whatever was downloaded or, if the wi-fi was good enough that day, I’d just pick whatever was trending.” 

“Seriously? Is that all they downloaded?” Noct chuckles, trying to imagine a bunch of mages huddled around a TV watching daytime soap operas. You’re pleased that he no longer looks so somber. Just one more nail in the coffin and that awful conversation will be nothing but a distant memory- a nightmare. 

“Noctis... Are you asking me if I watched porn?” Your very sudden question has him choking on his spit. No! That’s _not_ what he was asking! Why-? Wait. _Have_ you? Ar-Are you bringing this up for a reason? He’s too busy internally freaking out to see the devilish glint in your eyes. Apricus trots ahead of you, so tired of your games with the raven-haired royal. 

“Wh-What?” Noct finally manages to sputter out. 

“Oh my goodness!” You gasp dramatically, covering your mouth with your hands and pretending to be flustered. “Sweet Noctis is asking if _I’ve_ ever watched _porn_? I’m just an innocent, sheltered Spire mage! Of course I did!” 

“I wasn’t- W-Wait. You _what_?” That shade of red isn’t natural.  


“Lighten up, Noctis,” you snort, elbowing him in the ribs and ignoring his rather violent reaction  to the contact. “Try not to assume that I’m some little milquetoast mage, while you’re at it.” 

Despite what you know lies ahead, you relax. Though you aren’t sure that everything will work out, the risk is worth it. Because Noct is too good. He’s too damn good to be the focus of Ardyn’s ire. And the threat of Ardyn is enough for you to shove the immorality of your magic into the furthest recess of your mind. 

A shy look is shot your way. Though there’s a line that mustn’t be crossed, you and Noctis toe it constantly before someone does something about it. You’re like best friends: Making jokes at the  other’s expense, protecting and accepting each other. Your time with him ends too soon. You miss him desperately. His absence feels like another death. Noctis will be blissfully unaware of all the things that you’ll do when he’s gone. He’ll only be wise to it when you aren’t there to greet him and when no one will look him in the eye when he asks where you are. 

This relaxation, this state of tranquility, opens you up to something you couldn’t have possibly foreseen. Though Florus had warned you and you’d already selectively blocked out bits and pieces of your childhood, your defenses are lowered. Walls that had been built up for good reason come crumbling down. It starts off with a jarring crack. 

You wake up much earlier than usual. Except you aren’t really awake. Body moves, eyes open, and you walk away from camp. There’s a voice that you follow in the darkness. It whispers all the while; drowned out by your footsteps before rising to a haunting trill just to be heard. It’s desperate and forlorn; makes your heart clench just from the sound of it. But in the dream, you aren’t even sure if you’re seeking out the source of the voice at all. 

You can feel someone standing behind you as you walk, cool breath on the back of your neck, fingers like fire tracing down your spine. There’s an urgency to their words- words that you can’t understand. Outside, alone, you stand in the darkness. Something tells you that you’re waiting. Waiting for what, though? You don’t know. You feel an urge to look behind you at the creature that stands at your back. Skin prickles with goosebumps that quickly welt into painful blisters from the heat of that scalding hand. Tears prick your eyes, mouth opens in a silent scream. Muscles stiffen and you put your weight on your left foot. Body turns to confront your stalker- 

“ _Don’t look back!_ ” 

And then you wake up. Crickets chirp, owls hoot, and your heart pounds. All manner of nighttime noises greet you but they’re far too loud- far too _close_. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer in the safety of that hunter-green tent, surrounded by slumbering men. Dampness from the earth beneath you seeps into your skin. With a jolt, you sit up and look around wildly. Eyes widen in an effort to see properly before you remember yourself and have a fireball flickering at your fingertips. That warmth soothes you as you get on your knees. Thin trees reach up into the darkness, trying to pluck the stars from the sky. 

You’re alone. Except you aren’t. 

Between the trees, shrouded in shadow, someone watches. The warm light of your fire sends shadows jumping across a ruined face, has yellow eyes flashing, and exposed teeth glinting. Beneath the din of nighttime creatures, you hear a rattling breath that rushes out from between saliva-slicked teeth. You don’t scream. You don’t move. All you can do is breathe, “It’s you.”

* * *

**Prompto**

It’s a long time coming, this confrontation. It’s the first of many. However, this one is far more tame in nature than the ones that follow. It’s benevolent; comes from a good place. Maybe it comes from an inquisitive place as well, but your well-being is at the forefront. Because you started this journey so reticent but you grew to be as loud and vivacious as you could be. More than if you had stayed at the Spire, that’s for sure. Of course, you remain as acerbic and witty as you’ve always been. 

But he’s come to expect a certain openness from you. Though you may not wear your heart on your sleeve, though you may not speak freely at all times... Prompto knows that all he has to do is touch your hand, your shoulder, your back, and you’ll _know_ that he’s here for you. Except now? Now, you pull away. Now, you don’t return those kind touches. And he doesn’t understand. But, oh, does he have an _inkling_ of what’s wrong. He and the others know that your issue rests with Ardyn. That’s given. You’d turned to stone with venom on your tongue the moment you were in the redhead’s presence. But Prompto knows of another issue. 

Ramuh.  


The _Fulgurian_. 

His trial occurred at possibly the worst time for you. So wrapped up in the confusing feelings that Ardyn never failed to evoke in you, you were confronted by the Astral that your family had always called their god. Some of your ancestors even referred to him as your divine summoner. All of that poking and prodding; flashes of those golden eyes in tandem with white teeth; threats and well-wishes. At every turn Ardyn put you on the spot. He kept you on your toes. It was like you two never fell out of step. Except that _now_? Now you’re in service to your kingdom. It was the one thing he always needled you about: 

“Are you _really_ going to serve the people who let your family die?”  


“Do you _honestly_ still pray to the ‘god’ who turned his back on your family?” 

When you’d resolutely answered in the affirmative to both, as you always did and as you always will, there was no longer contempt in his eyes for the foolish child and their little fantasies. No. There was malice for the disobedient mage and their unbreakable honor. Because outside of the Spire, you pose a threat. You’re no longer the mageling trapped in the old college who squeezed his hand goodbye and wished that they could go with him on his journeys. You’re the gifted enchanter, the competent herbalist, the novice necromancer, and the accidental summoner who serves the King of Lucis. 

Too loyal for your own good, much like your ancestors. A double-edged sort of trait. It benefits all but you. And Ardyn knows that you’ll burn for Noctis Lucis Caelum the way _they_ did for him. He could see it in those sad eyes of yours when you first met. With a glance you took him back in time. And he’d wanted to stay there... But there’s no going back. Forward is the only direction and you two are on a collision course. Ardyn won’t let you hold him back. And when you saw Ramuh for the first time, you almost let Ardyn hold _you_ back. Because all of that self-doubt that he’s so skilled at cultivating rushed forth at the sight of the Astral. 

Where you thought you’d expertly dodged each attack, the wounds manifested from seemingly nowhere like paper-cuts you didn’t know you had until you washed your hands. The pain was comparable enough to such a silly simile. It was bearable but burdensome all at once. You’d been rendered speechless at the sight of the Fulgurian. He was a vision in the darkened sky, highlighted by lightning. He was more than you ever imagined. Throat tightened, full of emotion, and you nearly dropped your staff- nearly dropped to your knees, too. _Yet_... 

Awe slowly twisted into contempt as those yellow eyes gazed down upon your prince. For a second you were that inimical childhood friend you so admired; bitter and resentful. You wondered what your mother would say if she were here. And, like it always did, the pain of her loss hit you so suddenly. Always like a fresh wound; blindsiding you, leaving you breathless, leaving you angry. 

You never got to properly mourn your mother. Her body was neither burned nor buried as far as you know. All you were able to do was light some incense away from camp early in the morning, before anyone had awakened, and pray to Ramuh to put her spirit to rest. The unworthiness of her death has been and always will be a yoke about your neck. It will never cease to embitter you. 

“ _How dare you offer your help now? How dare you ask for more sacrifice after all that’s been lost?_ ” 

It wasn’t what you’d thought you would think upon first seeing your god. You’d hoped to be more gracious, more reverent. You’d hoped to be as worthy as the people whose words you read- the ancestors who were so devoted right until the end. But none of them lived to see him. Only you. Why? Then Ramuh _looked_ at you. You’d stared into the eyes of your family’s creator and all you could think about was how your family had been slaughtered. One by one. Down to _you_. What should have been the highlight of your life was soured by the reality of Ramuh’s inaction. Because he’s real. And he did _nothing_. 

Yet you bent your knee and dropped your head. The tears fell. “Thank you.” 

It was acrid on your tongue. Yes, _thank you_ for letting so many people die. _Thank you_ for leaving in the first place. _Thank you_ for aiding Noctis. Aiding, _not_ protecting. Though you _are_ grateful that Ramuh forged a covenant with Noctis, you know that neither Ramuh nor the other Astrals will be doing any protecting. Ardyn’s words haunted you in that moment. But you turned bitterness into determination. Because the Astrals hardly have a good track-record for watching over humanity and divine intervention always comes at great cost. So, it will be _you_ who will be  doing the intervening. No, you don’t liken yourself to an Astral... because _you’ll_ actually get the job done. 

“ _Pride goeth before a fall._ ” 

Yes, well... At least when you fall, you’ll know that you did _everything_ in your power to do right by your friends and family. Prompto watches from beneath pale lashes as you gently throw your bag over your shoulder before making your way out of the caravan. When before he didn’t even know that you prayed, now he’s noticing it more and more. You do it so frequently- daily, actually. It’s almost like you’re making up for lost time. On light feet, he follows you through the woods. He’s never been up this early before aside from pulling all-nighters playing games with Noct. It’s still dark out and the air is muggy and smells of rain and chocobos. The light from Wiz’s is at his back. 

He’s tense, fearing the daemons, but he won’t leave you. It’s dangerous for you to be going out alone and he surmounts his nerves by keeping his eyes on that dusky lavender sweater that makes you look like a specter in the darkness; weaving between trees, stepping over roots. Prompto is actually surprised that he was able to catch you. Lately, you leave so early that it’s impossible for him to pull himself out of the clutches of sleep to tail you to wherever it is you go to do whatever it is you do. But you know he’s there. He’s not nearly so quiet and you’re a paranoid mage. 

“Are you going to pray with me?” You suddenly ask, voice low but still sounding so loud in the silence of the early morning. Like a gunshot, Prompto thinks. 

Choking back a startled yelp, Prom stutters out, “Pr-Pray? Why?” 

“I’m stocking up on a bunch of goodwill before I do something really bad,” you joke, turning your eyes up to the slowly lightening sky before finally stopping in the sparse woods to peer at the blond over your shoulder. 

“Bad?” He looks so confused in the pale, early-morning light. He’s lucky that you confounded him so damn quickly because his stomach was in knots as he followed you out into the wilderness, torn between concern and feeling like a prowling creep. 

A wicked smirk tugs the corner of your mouth up, a glint of teeth. “It’s a joke, Prom. You should know by now that roughly 90% of what I say is a joke,” you lie. Well, you half-lie. Because although you’re praying for your mother’s sake, you’re also doing it for reassurance. These days, you mostly invoke _her_. Though you have it set in your mind the path that you’ll take, the lengths you’re ready and willing to go to... you’re afraid of doing it alone and without guidance. You’re nervous. Because binding magic? That’s no joke. And it has no punchline when your soul is thrown into the mix. 

However, you know that Ramuh will never deign to answer _you_. You’re _just_ an Iovita. The _worst_ Iovita, you tell yourself. With no heroic feats under your belt, with no life experience or entry in the grimoire, you’re nobody. A nobody who is secretly shaming your family with the things you do in the darkness. The things you do with _daemons_. Sometimes, you hope your mother will answer you when you pray. 

Musk fills the air, tendrils of pale smoke curling up into the sky. The smell itches Prompto’s nose and he struggles not to sneeze. He watches on as you kneel in the damp earth, hands on your knees, in front of the small repurposed inkwell that holds the incense stick. Eyes close and the world is shut out completely. You pray for guidance. Should’ve been more specific on who you wanted it from. While Ramuh hears your prayers but does not heed them, there’s someone who waits eagerly in the shadow. Unblinking yellow eyes watch closely- as closely as they’ve always watched since the day you were born. They wonder if you’ll scream and cry and lash out like the  last time they came to your aid. 

Knees ache from the wet chill of the dirt and you take that as your sign to get up. The inkwell is snatched up and tossed in your bag. There’s a crack of a twig beneath a booted heel and you know the blond is carefully approaching- awkward and uncertain. “Um...” 

Even with all the doom and gloom, even with all the stress of the world, the high way that he mumbles has a teasing grin spreading across your face. “Um?” You mimic and turn on your heel to face the freckled blond. As expected, his cheeks are red from your little games. 

“You okay?” 

Mouth opens immediately to respond and then your mind catches up. What a strange social convention. You’re expected to say that you’re fine even if you aren’t. Because it’s impolite to impose your issues on others- especially if they’re completely blameless in what’s going _wrong_ with you. But Prompto won’t stand for you further isolating yourself. When he asks if you’re okay, it’s _sincere_. These past few days, you’ve been more standoffish than usual. Hell, you didn’t even _blink_ when yet another imperial base was infiltrated to get the Regalia and you were all confronted by Ardyn _yet again_. And something about how the chancellor looked at you didn’t and still _doesn’t_ sit right with Prompto. 

“(y/n).”

“Prompto,” you copy his severe tone.

He sighs, pale brows furrowed. “Please. Just tell me what’s wrong.”

He can’t know that you’ve been working on binding magic. Because if you tell him that you’re stealing the corrupted souls of daemons and binding them to yourself in order to summon them, in order to un-bind them, all in the hopes of doing it seamlessly _to yourself_ with Noct as the recipient of _your_ soul...? You wonder if there’s a less crazy way of phrasing what you’re doing. Sure, you can point to Lumis’ passages on how binding souls awards the recipient with the ability to utilize properties of the bound soul; namely how Noct will be able to hopefully use his magic without limits, but... 

In the very next passage, Lumis warns against this magic. It’s dangerous. You’ll be like a fount of magic to your royal charge but it will _drain you_. As long as he’s in possession of your soul, as long as he uses it, you won’t have the luxury of your usual unlimited magic. Because your soul will no longer be yours. A strange thing to be ripped in two like that. And you know how insane it sounds. 

“If you _must_ know...” you drawl in an effort to stall, “it’s just been stress, Prompto. Even someone as seemingly limitless and amazing as I am can succumb to it every now and then. I come out to pray and then I...” The words are stuck in your throat. How funny that you _almost_ want to tell the truth. It’s a selfish notion to ease your burden by sharing it with someone else. Even though you just internally scolded yourself over this issue, even though you know this is _your_ burden to bear alone, you want to confide in him. Because this is Prompto, and he never ceases to ease your nerves. 

“Then you what?” The blond asks, tilting his head to the side endearingly. You highly doubt he even knows that he does it. The urge to pat his head is snuffed out. 

“I look for all sorts of herbs and spices to make potions, poisons, and bombs. There’s good money in it, Blondie. And money can buy temporary stress relief.” Do you feel guilty for lying? Yes. Of course. But you can’t tell him what you’re doing _now_. Can’t tell him that you’ve been absorbing  souls, summoning daemons, and using the powers proper to those daemons- powers you _wouldn’t_ normally have. Because you fear you’ll lower yourself in his eyes. But most importantly you fear he’ll talk you out of it. And if anyone can talk you out of something, it’s Prompto Argentum and his damn puppy eyes. 

He flushes at the nicknames you’ve been lavishing him with lately. Secretly, he hopes it means you’re as fond of him as he is of you. Honestly? There’s no way for _anyone_ to be fond of _anyone else_ as much as Prompto Argentum is of you. It’s like that wicked little mage cast a spell on him. “What do you buy?” Prom queries, bottom lip ever so slightly pouted out and brow lightly puckered in that curious way of his. 

“Food, mostly.” Shoulders shrug and you adjust the strap of your bag so it doesn’t dig into your collarbone so much. “Little trinkets to enchant and sometimes clothes. I’ve purchased birthday gifts, too.” 

“Really?” 

“Uh-huh,” eyes narrow suspiciously and you sneer, “but don’t bother asking what I got you, you little sneak.” 

“I wasn’t gonna.” The sharpshooter blushes (Because, holy crap, (y/n) bought _him_ something?) and you’re going to rib him again, but then he says something that turns your words into a lump in your throat. “D’you mind if I come with you?”  He doesn’t want you to be alone. You can rebuff him all day but he’s resolutely declared himself your best friend in his head about a million times at this point. Hell, he’s basically the president of your damn fan club and your personal cheerleader. And he _hates_ to see you upset. Even if he gets nothing but snark for his efforts. 

“Come with me?” You parrot but it’s not done jokingly this time around. You’re genuinely curious. Birds begin chirping and you know you’re going to get a text from Iggy soon inquiring about your whereabouts and if you’ll be around in time for breakfast. 

That head of fluffy blond hair bobs. “Yeah. Right now. When you go looking for plants and stuff.” 

Well, looks like you won’t be checking on the daemons today and practicing using their abilities. It’s a shame. You’ve managed to get a goblin, a flan, and a bomb. You _had_ an imp but you stored it in your crystal when the others started to feel too oppressive and when you reached out for it, it was gone. “I guess that’s fine,” you mumble, feeling your cheeks warming up when those cornflower blue eyes shine bright. 

“Yeah! It’s a date!” 

Time seems to freeze for poor Prompto Argentum. The world is spun like a top and he’s left feeling light-headed and dizzy. Oh, _crap_. He just called a totally normal, totally innocuous hang- out session with (y/n) Iovita a “date.” And you look way too cool. Hell, you even look at him from beneath your lashes in the way he always dreams about. Gods, he always wakes up awkwardly from those dreams. ‘Cause there he is dreaming all sorts of things about you and you’re sleeping _right next to him_. Wait. What’s that look you’re giving him now? Oh, no! Can you read his mind? He always feared you might be able to! How else do you always manage to look at him when he’s thinking... _things_? 

He almost drops dead when you reply flippantly, “Sure. If you want it to be.” 

Prompto’s eyes are as wide as saucers. “W-Well- I- What? I mean, you do? Do me? I mean- _With_ me?! Do you?” 

How you resist laughing at him right now? It’s almost _painful_ to keep from howling. The laughter wants out, but all you do is clench your teeth and murmur, “Sorry, I think you lost me.” 

“Is this a date?” Prompto manages to ask without stuttering. He gives himself a mental high-five. He needs about a million more to recover from that horror-show, however. 

“If you want it to be,” you repeat. Are you freaking out? Maybe. Maybe... But the funny thing is that _you_ can’t freak out if _Prompto_ is. The moment the blond starts losing his cool and sputtering, you’re stoic and full of unaffected ease. It’s almost like it’s for his sake. That realization makes your cheeks burn. 

For his part, Prom is trying damn hard to be as cool as you are. The toe of his boot digs into the soft earth and his hands are shoved into his pockets. Then he further irritates you by puffing his cheeks out and countering evasively, “Only if _you_ want it to be.” 

Eyes roll up to the sky where you watch birds fly in a V-formation. “Can you stop messing around?” 

Sensing your irritation, the blond flounders, “I mean- I don’t want to pressure-” 

“ _Is that his concern?_ ” You think incredulously. 

Honestly, you’re a little surprised that at this point in the game he’s still worried about pressuring you. You’re hardly the type of person to get pressured into _anything_. Too stubborn by far and you’ve made your interest in the blond known through subtle touches, teases, and _blatant_ flirtation. Where he goes meek, you become bold. Like now, as you cross your arms over your chest, jut your hip out, and demand, “Do you want to date me or not?” 

“Desperately...” It’s an automatic response that has him going so red that you actually fear for his health. 

You bite your lip. “Then it’s a date. It would be my honor to take the most charming man I know out to dig around in the wilderness for plants. As one customarily does on a first date.” 

He’s still so damn red. “I-Is that how mages date?” 

Eyes blink slowly. _Y’know_ , this isn’t the first time he’s asked you about the nuances of mage life like you’re a different species entirely. Then again, there _are_ some bizarre rumors about the customs found in the Spire. Like your daily prayer, for example. Except it’s common for Spire mages to pray for spirits or daemons to bless them with their magic. Sadly, not a rumor. “Yeah. Sure. And on the second date I’ll do some scrying to see what our future dog looks like,” you deadpan. 

“Would you?” 

“ _Would you_ let me tell one joke without it turning out so horribly?” You scoff, fighting off a flush that comes from your own embarrassment as well as second-hand shame for the blond. “And you sure move fast, don’t you? Already thinking about our future dog.” 

Prompto is downright indignant. Too bad being so flustered makes his brain short-out. “You brought her up!” 

“ _Her_?” At the way he cringes so hard that you think he might implode, you decide to be merciful.  “Whatever. C’mon, Sunshine. We’re burning daylight.” 

The whole time you look around for plants that you don’t even need, the shutterbug takes photos. It’s seemingly endless and has you wondering when a hobby becomes an obsession. Embarrassment comes and goes in waves as the blond insists on making you his muse. At one point, you remember to yank your phone out of your pocket to shoot Iggy a quick text to inform him that you and Prompto will be out for a while. Eyes scan the phone’s screen a moment before you carefully type “We’re on a date.” before hitting send. Teeth capture your bottom lip and you smile to yourself. Busywork is resumed with you carefully exhuming some dropped elixirs out in the Nebulawood as well as wild mushrooms and nightshade. 

When it’s about to be 6:00 a.m., you announce, “There’s a campground somewhere near here where I can start a fire. I’ll make a quick poison and then we can head back to the Post for breakfast. Sound good?” 

“Yeah,” Prompto agrees. Hell, at this point, you could tell him you’re going to hunt Deadeye all over again, just the two of you armed with sporks, and he’ll be down. It’s rare that he can get you alone. And he finds that he enjoys these moments where you aren’t Noct’s arcane advisor but the witty, charming mage he fell so quickly for. The second you hear him take a deep breath, you know he’s going to pull something. And that something is his hand clumsily bumping into yours. When he fails to successfully hook his index finger around your pinky, he tries to retreat. You, however, snatch his hand and hold it like it’s no big deal. 

Fingers lace through his. He _almost_ faints. Prom isn’t sure when you two get to the campground, but he jumps when you’re suddenly saying, “I need you to roast these mushrooms over the fire. Make sure they don’t burn.” At his nervous expression, you blink your eyes and simper, “ _Please_? It won’t hurt you, I promise.” 

A warm blush spreads across his cheeks. He rubs the back of his burning neck and chuckles lamely, “Heh. Sure.” You squeeze his hand and let go. His hand feels oddly cold without yours.The blond sets about awkwardly skewering the mushrooms and roasting them evenly over the fire while you tug your grimoire from your bag and begin scanning the pages for a poison you want to modify. Something that will work like an illusion to induce frenzy. 

"You seem to have gotten really close to Noct." 

You wonder once you get over your initial shock, “ _Where’d that come from?_ ” 

"Yeah. I guess so." 

"What's that expression for?" 

Glancing up, you find the blond staring at you from across the fire. Cool as can be, you hum, "Hm?" 

"You frowned,” Prom clarifies, rotating the mushrooms. “It's not a bad thing that you like him. He's a likable guy." 

A delicate page is flipped carefully, as carefully as you tread around Prompto’s feelings. "Oh. That's not it. It's just... funny." 

"Funny?" 

"I looked forward to working for him since I was a kid but I never thought I would _like_ him. In my mind he would be a peach compared to the mages and magisters. As a royal I thought he might be rather snobbish but he's nothing of the sort. He's dorky and down to earth. A pleasant  surprise, to say the least."  And he’s _good_. It’s apparent in his actions. From the many people he’s gone out of his way to help to how he interacts with others. Though he’s an adult, you feel like he’s just a kid when you think about what lies ahead. When you think about the people who stand in his way. One in particular, really. A redhead with a cruel streak. It's what further drives your desire to protect Noctis. 

“Oh,” Prom hums in understanding. 

Seeking to assuage any fears he might have of you having perhaps a more tender spot for Noct than for him, you comment lightly as you read from the grimoire, “I also didn’t expect to like his blond best friend so much. Who knew you would be such a sweetheart?” 

“Ouch!”  


Startled, you drop your book and whip your head up to the blond. “What? What happened?” 

“I burned my fingers!” Tears prick the corners of his eyes and his cheeks are blood red. He’s damning himself for getting so worked up over you saying you like him and think he’s a sweetheart that he _injured himself_. 

“Prompto...” A hand runs down your face, heartbeat slowing back down. “Well, I’m not a healer so the most I can do is kiss it better,” you joke before resuming your work. You’re a bit irritated with yourself for not bringing the burn salve. However, you didn’t expect to get tailed when you left before sunrise. 

The tense silence is lost on your studious self. As you drag your finger over lines of text, brow furrowing in concentration, Prompto watches you. Mouth feeling bone dry and heart somewhere in his throat, he’s barely able to rasp, “Would you?” 

“Hm? Would I what?” 

“Kiss it better...” 

Where at first he didn’t have your attention, now he has all of it. “I was just _joking_ ,” you drawl but you make your way to him, grab his trembling hand, and examine his slightly reddened fingertips anyway. Gaze flickers up to maintain eye contact as you slowly bring his fingers up to your mouth and delicately press a kiss to each fingertip. 

He gasps when your ice cold lips brush against his skin, “I-I didn’t know you could do that! Can you concentrate your magic into other body par- Uh! Okay, I realize that sounds really bad!” 

“You’re a dork.” You smirk. “And you make it so damn easy to tease you, too.” 

“Tease?” His hand is still in yours and you resume placing cooling kisses on his burned fingertips. He shudders and it isn’t from the cold. You know. Which is why you continue, unabashed, brushing your lips down his fingers, over his knuckles, before placing one last kiss on the back of his hand. 

“Let’s head back.” 

“O-Okay,” he breathes. 

Is he going to dream about this for the next few days? Yup. He feels like a little pervert for imagining how it would feel for you to kiss him delicately like that somewhere else, eyes turned  up to lock with his. ‘Cause he doesn’t immediately think about you kissing him on the _mouth_ like a regular person. He smacks himself over the forehead and your lips quirk at the sound. Despite what you know lies ahead, you relax in his presence. You’re at ease. Though you aren’t sure that everything will work out, Prompto has a way about him that soothes your nerves and makes you feel not only welcome but accepted. 

A boyish smile is shot your way. He counts himself lucky every time your wicked eyes alight on him. He lives for your dark humor and evil little grins. But he’s only able to enjoy being so close to you for a short period of time. Which is why it’s so devastating to him when it’s all ripped away at once. Prompto doesn’t let you go without a fight, however. He’ll stand by your side whether you like it or not. 

This relaxation, this state of tranquility, opens you up to something you couldn’t have possibly foreseen. Though Florus had warned you and you’d already selectively blocked out bits and pieces of your childhood, your defenses are lowered. Walls that had been built up for good reason come crumbling down. It starts off with a jarring crack. 

You wake up much earlier than usual. Except you aren’t really awake. Body moves, eyes open, and you walk away from camp. There’s a voice that you follow in the darkness. It whispers all the while; drowned out by your footsteps before rising to a haunting trill just to be heard. It’s desperate and forlorn; makes your heart clench just from the sound of it. But in the dream, you aren’t even sure if you’re seeking out the source of the voice at all. 

You can feel someone standing behind you as you walk, cool breath on the back of your neck, fingers like fire tracing down your spine. There’s an urgency to their words- words that you can’t understand. Outside, alone, you stand in the darkness. Something tells you that you’re waiting. Waiting for what, though? You don’t know. You feel an urge to look behind you at the creature that stands at your back. Skin prickles with goosebumps that quickly welt into painful blisters from the heat of that scalding hand. Tears prick your eyes, mouth opens in a silent scream. Muscles stiffen and you put your weight on your left foot. Body turns to confront your stalker- 

“ _Don’t look back!_ ” 

And then you wake up. Crickets chirp, owls hoot, and your heart pounds. All manner of nighttime noises greet you but they’re far too loud- far too _close_. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer in the safety of that hunter-green tent, surrounded by slumbering men. Dampness from the earth beneath you seeps into your skin. With a jolt, you sit up and look around wildly. Eyes widen in an effort to see properly before you remember yourself and have a fireball flickering at your fingertips. That warmth soothes you as you get on your knees. Thin trees reach up into the darkness, trying to pluck the stars from the sky. 

You’re alone. Except you aren’t. 

Between the trees, shrouded in shadow, someone watches. The warm light of your fire sends shadows jumping across a ruined face, has yellow eyes flashing, and exposed teeth glinting. Beneath the din of nighttime creatures, you hear a rattling breath that rushes out from between saliva-slicked teeth. You don’t scream. You don’t move. All you can do is breathe, “It’s you."

* * *

**Ignis**

It’s a long time coming, this confrontation. It’s the first of many. However, this one is far more tame in nature than the ones that follow. It’s benevolent; comes from a good place. Maybe it comes from an inquisitive place as well, but your well-being is at the forefront. Because you started this journey so reticent but you grew to be as loud and vivacious as you could be. More than if you had stayed at the Spire, that’s for sure. Of course, you remain as acerbic and witty as you’ve always been. 

These days, however, you’re the epitome of a Spire mage: Cold, calculating, and cruel under a veneer of niceties. Though you may not speak freely at all times, Ignis has carefully established a rapport of mutual understanding with you. You talk and he listens. And he provides coffee and pastries, of course. But the coffee grows cold and the pastries stale as he waits for you to open up again. Because you no longer talk and you no longer seek out his company. The cunning strategist knows what bothers you, however. It was as plain as day. He and the others know that your issue rests with Ardyn. That’s given. You’d turned to stone with venom on your tongue the moment you were in the redhead’s presence. But Ignis knows of another issue. 

Ramuh.  


The _Fulgurian_. 

His trial occurred at possibly the worst time for you. So wrapped up in the confusing feelings that Ardyn never failed to evoke in you, you were confronted by the Astral that your family had always called their god. Some of your ancestors even referred to him as your divine summoner. All of that poking and prodding; flashes of those golden eyes in tandem with white teeth; threats and well-wishes. At every turn Ardyn put you on the spot. He kept you on your toes. It was like you two never fell out of step. Except that _now_? Now you’re in service to your kingdom. It was the one thing he always needled you about: 

“Are you _really_ going to serve the people who let your family die?”  


“Do you _honestly_ still pray to the ‘god’ who turned his back on your family?” 

When you’d resolutely answered in the affirmative to both, as you always did and as you always will, there was no longer contempt in his eyes for the foolish child and their little fantasies. No.  There was malice for the disobedient mage and their unbreakable honor. Because outside of the Spire, you pose a threat. You’re no longer the mageling trapped in the old college who squeezed his hand goodbye and wished that they could go with him on his journeys. You’re the gifted enchanter, the competent herbalist, the novice necromancer, and the accidental summoner who serves the King of Lucis. 

Too loyal for your own good, much like your ancestors. A double-edged sort of trait. It benefits all but you. And Ardyn knows that you’ll burn for Noctis Lucis Caelum the way _they_ did for him. He could see it in those sad eyes of yours when you first met. With a glance you took him back in time. And he’d wanted to stay there... But there’s no going back. Forward is the only direction and you two are on a collision course. Ardyn won’t let you hold him back. And when you saw Ramuh for the first time, you almost let Ardyn hold _you_ back. Because all of that self-doubt that he’s so skilled at cultivating rushed forth at the sight of the Astral. 

Where you thought you’d expertly dodged each attack, the wounds manifested from seemingly nowhere like paper-cuts you didn’t know you had until you washed your hands. The pain was comparable enough to such a silly simile. It was bearable but burdensome all at once. You’d been rendered speechless at the sight of the Fulgurian. He was a vision in the darkened sky, highlighted by lightning. He was more than you ever imagined. Throat tightened, full of emotion, and you nearly dropped your staff- nearly dropped to your knees, too. _Yet_... 

Awe slowly twisted into contempt as those yellow eyes gazed down upon your prince. For a second you were that inimical childhood friend you so admired; bitter and resentful. You wondered what your mother would say if she were here. And, like it always did, the pain of her loss hit you so suddenly. Always like a fresh wound; blindsiding you, leaving you breathless, leaving you angry. 

You never got to properly mourn your mother. Her body was neither burned nor buried as far as you know. All you were able to do was light some incense away from camp early in the morning, before anyone had awakened, and pray to Ramuh to put her spirit to rest. The unworthiness of her death has been and always will be a yoke about your neck. It will never cease to embitter you. 

“ _How dare you offer your help now? How dare you ask for more sacrifice after all that’s been lost?_ ” 

It wasn’t what you’d thought you would think upon first seeing your god. You’d hoped to be more gracious, more reverent. You’d hoped to be as worthy as the people whose words you read- the ancestors who were so devoted right until the end. But none of them lived to see him. Only you. Why? Then Ramuh _looked_ at you. You’d stared into the eyes of your family’s creator and all you could think about was how your family had been slaughtered. One by one. Down to _you_. What should have been the highlight of your life was soured by the reality of Ramuh’s inaction. Because he’s real. And he did _nothing_. 

Yet you bent your knee and dropped your head. The tears fell. “Thank you.” 

It was acrid on your tongue. Yes, _thank you_ for letting so many people die. _Thank you_ for leaving in the first place. _Thank you_ for aiding Noctis. Aiding, _not_ protecting. Though you _are_ grateful that Ramuh forged a covenant with Noctis, you know that neither Ramuh nor the other Astrals will be doing any protecting. Ardyn’s words haunted you in that moment. But you turned bitterness into determination. Because the Astrals hardly have a good track-record for watching over humanity and divine intervention always comes at great cost. So, it will be _you_ who will be doing the intervening. No, you don’t liken yourself to an Astral... because _you’ll_ actually get the job done. 

“ _Pride goeth before a fall._ ” 

Yes, well... At least when you fall, you’ll know that you did _everything_ in your power to do right by your friends and family. Although Ignis has the patience of a saint, he’s just about had it with your dodgy antics. You’re doing not only Noctis but _yourself_ a great disservice by neglecting your physical and mental health. Emerald eyes crack open and simmer when he hears you shuffle around the caravan before leaving. That’s it. He’s humored you for a while now. He’s put aside his own misgivings about what you do out there alone in the night but enough is enough. 

While he would normally sigh and wait to send you a text come sunrise to ask if you’ll be back for breakfast, the brunet gets up from the bench in the kitchenette and exits the caravan as silently as you did. Keen eyes spot you immediately and Ignis scowls when he realizes you’re going into the Nebulawood. Are you going back to pester the necromancers or, gods forbid, the _mindflayers_? On light feet, he tails you, mindful of how the light from Wiz’s grows more and more faint the further you stray from _safety_. When he almost loses sight of that dusky lavender sweater in the oppressive darkness of the woods, Ignis finally calls out, “(y/n). What do you think you’re doing?” 

Your reaction to his silent tread never ceases to amuse him. However, in this context, he takes no pleasure in how you violently whip around and trip over a root. Arms flail out to catch yourself against a tree. “What the fuck?!” With wide eyes, you stare at the bespectacled brunet. “How the-? What are _you_ doing?” 

“I won’t ask you again.” It’s too dark to properly see his expression, but under the faint light of the stars, you know he’s frowning. Hell, you can practically feel the disapproval oozing off of him. 

“I’m going to pray so I can stock up on a bunch of goodwill before I do something really bad,” you joke before resuming your little jaunt in the woods (pretending like you _didn’t_ just fall dramatically against a tree) and look for a clearing. 

Ignis follows by your side and you can occasionally feel his gaze on your face. “What do you mean? Are you in trouble?” His tone is restrained but urgent. 

A wicked smirk tugs the corner of your mouth up, a glint of teeth that has Ignis narrowing his eyes. “It’s a joke, Scientia. You should know by now that roughly 90% of what I say is a joke,” you lie. Well, you half-lie. Because although you’re praying for your mother’s sake, you’re also doing it for reassurance. These days, you mostly invoke _her_. Though you have it set in your mind the path that you’ll take, the lengths you’re ready and willing to go to... you’re afraid of doing it alone and without guidance. You’re nervous. Because binding magic? That’s no joke. And it has no punchline when your soul is thrown into the mix. 

However, you know that Ramuh will never deign to answer _you_. You’re _just_ an Iovita. The _worst_ Iovita, you tell yourself. With no heroic feats under your belt, with no life experience or entry in the grimoire, you’re nobody. A nobody who is secretly shaming your family with the things you do in the darkness. The things you do with _daemons_. Sometimes, you hope your mother will answer you when you pray. 

Musk fills the air, tendrils of pale smoke curling up into the lightening sky. The smell is familiar to Ignis- your sweater always has that incense musk to it. He watches quietly as you kneel in the damp earth, hands on your knees, in front of the small repurposed inkwell that holds the incense stick. Eyes close and the world is shut out completely. You pray for guidance. Should’ve been more specific on who you wanted it from. While Ramuh hears your prayers but does not heed them, there’s someone who waits eagerly in the shadow. Unblinking yellow eyes watch closely- as closely as they’ve always watched since the day you were born. They wonder if you’ll scream and cry and lash out like the last time they came to your aid. 

Knees ache from the wet chill of the dirt and you take that as your sign to get up. The inkwell is snatched up and tossed in your bag. Ignis clears his throat, so dignified, and you know he hasn’t let you off the hook just yet. He knows you don’t come out here _just_ to pray. If you did, you _wouldn’t_ be gone for nearly quite so long. 

“Though you know I quite admire your pluck, there’s no sense in you going out so early to pray alone. The darkness is dangerous, (y/n). You know that as well as I do.” He waits until you turn around to face him to ask, “Is everything all right?” 

_Of course_ he would wait until he can read your expression to ask something so serious. Mouth opens immediately to respond and then your mind catches up to still your tongue. What a strange social convention. You’re expected to say that you’re fine even if you aren’t. Because it’s impolite to impose your issues on others- especially if they’re blameless in what’s going _wrong_ with you. Social conventions aside, this is _Ignis Scientia_. The man is never anything but sincere and won’t settle for anything less from you, either. 

These past few days, you know you haven’t been yourself. Hell, you didn’t even _blink_ when yet another imperial base was infiltrated to get the Regalia and you were all confronted by Ardyn _yet again_. And something about how the chancellor looked at you didn’t and still _doesn’t_ sit right with Ignis. He’s no fool. And he won’t let you play him for one. Still, even knowing this, you respond at great length, “I’ve been well enough, thank you. And yourself?” 

Green eyes are hooded, lips curved into a frown. “ _(y/n)_.” 

He can’t know that you’ve been working on binding magic. Because if you tell him that you’re stealing the corrupted souls of daemons and binding them to yourself in order to summon them, in order to un-bind them, all in the hopes of doing it seamlessly _to yourself_ with Noct as the recipient of _your_ soul...? You wonder if there’s a less crazy way of phrasing what you’re doing. Sure, you can point to Lumis’ passages on how binding souls awards the recipient with the ability to utilize properties of the bound soul; namely how Noct will be able to hopefully use his magic without limits, but... 

In the very next passage, Lumis warns against this magic. It’s dangerous. You’ll be like a fount of magic to your royal charge but it will _drain you_. As long as he’s in possession of your soul, as long as he uses it, you won’t have the luxury of your usual unlimited magic. Because your soul will no longer be yours. A strange thing to be ripped in two like that. And you know how insane it sounds. 

“If you _must_ know...” you drawl in an effort to stall, “I’ve been a little stressed, Iggs. Okay? I’ll admit it. Even someone as seemingly limitless and amazing as _I am_ can succumb to it every now and then. I come out to pray and then I...” The words are stuck in your throat. How funny that you _almost_ want to tell the truth. It’s a selfish notion to ease your burden by sharing it with someone else. Even though you just internally scolded yourself over this, even though you know this is _your_ burden to bear alone, you want to confide in him. Because this is Ignis, and he’s always been there to lend you his ear. 

“And then you do what, (y/n)?” 

With your best mask on, you say, “I’ve just been taking walks to clear my head. Get some alone time. Y’know?” Do you feel guilty for lying? Yes. Of course. But you can’t tell him what you’re doing _now_. Can’t tell him that you’ve been absorbing souls, summoning daemons, and using the powers proper to those daemons- powers you _wouldn’t_ normally have. Because you fear you’ll lower yourself in his eyes. But most importantly you fear he’ll talk you out of it. ‘Cause if anyone can talk you out of something, it’s rational, level-headed Ignis Scientia with his kind words, strong  coffee, and sweet pastries. 

“I understand.” You think you’re in the clear until Ignis finishes off his statement with a careful adjustment of his glasses and a prim, “May I join you? Just for today, at least.” The brunet doesn’t entirely buy your explanation. This is mostly due to the fact that you previously confided in him about your “rough draft” of a plan that he knows involves binding magic, even though you had deflected. Some spell to help Noctis with his magic. Some spell that will rip you apart. Of course, he doesn’t know that last part. Because you steadfastly reassured him that you _know_ what you’re doing. 

“I...” Eyes lock with his. In those deep green depths, you see a dare. Blow him off, sure. That’s fine. But then he’ll know you _aren’t_ fine. Lose-Lose. “Yeah, that sounds good. It would be an honor to amble around the forest with you, Scientia,” you grumble, huffy at losing the game. Well, looks like you won’t be checking on the daemons today and practicing using their abilities. It’s a shame. You’ve managed to get a goblin, a flan, and a bomb. You _had_ an imp but you stored it in your crystal when the others started to feel too oppressive and when you reached out for it, it was gone. 

“Thank you for humoring me, Iovita. Shall we be off?” The lithe strategist extends his arm to you and your stomach flips when you realize he wants you to _hold his arm_. He looks washed out in the pale, early-morning light. Looks like a ghost, almost, with his haunting beauty. Blinking at that thought, you turn your face away and link your arm with his. Birds chirp and the air grows warmer. Walking about the wilderness with Ignis feels a bit surreal. Hand on his bicep, hip occasionally bumping against him when the terrain gets a bit uneven. Though he’s content to walk quietly, simply enjoying your company, you’ve never been one to abide long swaths of silence. Not since leaving the Spire, at least. 

After admiring the greenery a moment longer, you open your mouth just as Ignis wistfully states, “It feels as though we haven’t had a moment alone together in an age.” His lips twitch when he feels you reflexively tighten your grip on his arm. 

The words hang in the humid air a little while and Ignis allows you time to puzzle out the meaning in them. The last time you two were together, there was dirty music, blatant innuendo, and you’d considered ejecting yourself out of a moving car. This is certainly a far cry from _that_. But the suddenly teasing atmosphere remains. It’s like this is your constant state together: Subtle teases, innuendo that’s so obscure you need a high-powered microscope to see it, and covert looks. In your head, you’ve called this little dance with Ignis your “spy games.” 

It’s like something out of those old spy films you’d watch. All the cloak and dagger and hidden messages... but... _kinda_ X-rated? Ignis Scientia is the master of discretion and you’re almost on par. _Almost_ , because you can’t hide your reaction to some of the suggestive looks and gestures he’s given you quite as well as he can. As a direct consequence, the only one wise to your little coquetry is Gladiolus. ‘Cause it was kinda hard for him to overlook you suddenly choking near to death on a tart, Prom and Noct patting your back, and Iggy looking demurely down at his coffee with just a hint of a smirk on his lips. The Shield didn’t know what Iggy did, but he _knew_. 

It’s not merely flirtation, however. It’s courtship. And even without the time to spend alone together, it’s certainly progressed. Because you can never be outdone when it comes to _anything_. Especially when it comes to ruffling some feathers. So, after finally finding your voice, you lamely joke, “Well, we _do_ have to watch over the children. That’s a full-time job, dear.” 

“Very funny.” Ignis squashes a blush that threatens to creep up his neck when you squeeze his arm and lean into him. 

“ _I’m_ funny?” A derisive snort escapes you. “Says the man who just spoke like the two of us have  clandestine meetings. You should be a bit more careful. If someone were to overhear you, they’d think-” You stop yourself short and cluck your tongue as you narrow your eyes at your surroundings, “Never mind.” 

“They’d think what, exactly?” 

Iggy’s arm is released. Delicate eyebrows furrow at the loss of contact. With your mental map pulled up, you hurry off. Moss muffles footsteps as you fall out of step with him. Ignis lengthens his stride to match you. Trees are weaved between and boughs ducked under until you reach your destination. “Ah-ha!” You _thought_ the area looked familiar. The tipster made mention of someone dropping stuff somewhere in the Nebulawood and guess who just got a _free_ megalixir? Ignis watches on, leaning against a tree, as you paw through some foliage to exhume the source of some glint that only your hawk eyes could spot. The megalixir is stuffed into your bag. 

“Having fun?” Iggy drawls, green gaze lingering on the flecks of dirt on your hands. 

Huffing a laugh through your nose, you right yourself and sass right back, “Just saved Noctis some money, so _of course_ I am.” Fingers fumble with the buckle on your bag before you finally give up and leave it open. Heck, you’re probably just going to be stuffing more things in it anyway, judging by the greenery. 

“ _Could gather some prime herbs from this place for a potion_ ,” you muse. 

And you’re so busy thinking about your little scheme of making potions only to turn them around for a profit that you don’t notice the brunet saunter up to you until he’s right in front of you. Bodies are almost flush together, he bumps your bag with how close he is before grabbing your hand. Gloved fingers brush away sediment from your knuckles, thumb tracing a circle onto the back of your hand. “Always making such a mess,” Ignis hums, lips slightly pursed to purposefully draw your gaze there, “always being so... naughty.” 

You yank your hand out from his and scoff, “Six, Scientia!” Six, indeed. Your damn face is on fire and your heart is beating so loud you swear the bespectacled brunet can hear it, especially with how close he stands to you. Emerald eyes glimmer, satisfied with your reaction to his teasing. Oh, how he loves to get such vocal reactions out of you. Subtle sensuality is preferred. But when you’re alone...? 

“Is there a problem, Iovita?” He asks innocently, glad to distract you from whatever it is that bothers you, whatever it is you won’t talk to him about. It’s honestly unfair how he’s able to keep his composure and here you are having a fit over the brushing away of dirt. But you’re skilled at wearing masks. Emotions are tamped down and you don the façade of someone with much more equanimity and charisma than yourself. 

With a coy smile, you simper, “Not at all.” You prepare yourself mentally; swear to yourself not to laugh or cringe. This is an act that you need to commit to, dammit! Because you can’t let this game end with Ignis having won _again_. With this in mind, you furrow your brow and sigh, “However, there is _one_ issue.” 

“Oh?” 

There’s a tic in his jaw when your hand suddenly finds his hip. Fingertips toy with a belt-loop, bottom lip pouting out ever so slightly. Breath hitches almost imperceptibly the moment you run your hand up to his waist and close what little distance remains between you two. “I’m wondering...” Eyes look up at him from beneath lashes. Voice lowers to a murmur so that he has to lean in even closer to hear you. On a breath, you ask, “How do you plan on disciplining me?” 

Mission accomplished: He’s scalding under your hand. Just to add salt to the wound, you give his waist a squeeze. When you make to step away with a shit-eating grin on your face, Ignis follows. But it isn’t by his own volition. The intensity of his blush is your first clue that something is wrong. Stepping back once more, you find that he’s pulled in your direction again. He can’t even look you in the eye as he says, “Please stop moving. I’m caught on your bag.” 

“What?” Looking down, you see that his belt buckle is snagged on your bag’s buckle. For his sake, you pretend that’s all you see. “Oh. Uh. I’ve- I’ve got it.” 

The game is over and you’re both losers. “No, I’ve-” 

Two pairs of hands bumble against the buckles, both of you pretending not to notice the tremor in the other. The second he pulls the buckle and it has your bag’s strap yanking your staff against your back, you snap, “Would you-?” You cut yourself off with an aggravated sigh, "Just let me get you off." 

Breath catches and he bites his lip to keep from laughing at your expense, Ignis’ eyes widen marginally but you’re too focused on the stupid buckle to notice. "(y/n)..." 

His strange tone has you rolling your eyes. " _What_? I got us into this mess. All I'm trying to do is get you off. Why won't you let me just get you-?" Okay... _Now_ you hear it. You practically choke on the words. He could kiss you right now for your awkwardness, but Ignis feels that might be pushing his luck. Easy as can be, he unhooks himself while you’re busy dying inside. “Don’t tell anyone about this, Scientia,” you grumble, abruptly turning around once you’re free. 

Ignis’ voice has a teasing lilt, so condescending even though he had the worse end of the situation. “You know as well as I do that everything that happens between us _stays_ between us, Iovita.” 

“Shouldn’t we be heading back by now?” You ask far too loudly, like that unsubtle change in conversation will make the previous one disappear from existence. “The guys will starve without you.” 

“Three grown men with a restaurant nearby? I’m sure they’ll manage.” However, his hand is placed on the small of your back and you’re being guided back to Wiz’s. 

“How cruel of you, making them fend for themselves,” you tease in an effort to shake off your recent shame. My, it feels much warmer than it really is outside. You focus on the sounds of wildlife so that your body can get back to a reasonable temperature. An impossible feat, given Ignis’ hand placement. 

Iggy tuts, “They know how to cook. They just enjoy pretending to conveniently forget.” 

Stealing a glance at him, you find that he’s smiling. “Hell, I’d make myself forget how to cook if it meant I’d get you to cook for me every day for the rest of my life.” 

“For the rest of your life?” He queries, brow quirked and a flattered blush on his cheeks. 

“Yes, I plan on locking things down with you, Scientia,” you joke, not realizing just how much these types of jokes get to him. “Don’t want to let a good thing slip out from between my fingers.” 

His cheeks are red. “Very funny. However, I suppose people have committed to each other over less.” 

“Oh, it’s not just your cooking that I’m after.” 

“Is that so? What else do you fancy about me, I wonder?” 

“Hm.” Eyes squint up at him, a wicked grin on your face. “Don’t be so impatient. All in good time, Scientia.” 

Despite what you know lies ahead, you relax in his presence. You’re at ease even when he has you stammering. Though you aren’t sure that everything will work out, you feel like you have some unknown advantage with Ignis Scientia by your side; like you can’t possibly fail. A pleased smile masquerading as a disapproving frown is tossed your way. Ignis enjoys this game of cat and mouse with you. Even when it’s finally over and you “lock things down,” he loves every moment. Every stolen glance, every shared look, every heartfelt conversation, every tease and taunt that has eyes simmering and cheeks flushing... He lives for it all. But what you do later is perceived as the ultimate betrayal and he’ll hold it against you for years. Or he’ll try to, at least. 

This relaxation, this state of tranquility, opens you up to something you couldn’t have possibly foreseen. Though Florus had warned you and you’d already selectively blocked out bits and pieces of your childhood, your defenses are lowered. Walls that had been built up for good reason come crumbling down. It starts off with a jarring crack. 

You wake up much earlier than usual. Except you aren’t really awake. Body moves, eyes open, and you walk away from camp. There’s a voice that you follow in the darkness. It whispers all the while; drowned out by your footsteps before rising to a haunting trill just to be heard. It’s desperate and forlorn; makes your heart clench just from the sound of it. But in the dream, you aren’t even sure if you’re seeking out the source of the voice at all. 

You can feel someone standing behind you as you walk, cool breath on the back of your neck, fingers like fire tracing down your spine. There’s an urgency to their words- words that you can’t understand. Outside, alone, you stand in the darkness. Something tells you that you’re waiting. Waiting for what, though? You don’t know. You feel an urge to look behind you at the creature that stands at your back. Skin prickles with goosebumps that quickly welt into painful blisters from the heat of that scalding hand. Tears prick your eyes, mouth opens in a silent scream. Muscles stiffen and you put your weight on your left foot. Body turns to confront your stalker- 

“ _Don’t look back!_ ” 

And then you wake up. Crickets chirp, owls hoot, and your heart pounds. All manner of nighttime noises greet you but they’re far too loud- far too _close_. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer in the safety of that hunter-green tent, surrounded by slumbering men. Dampness from the earth beneath you seeps into your skin. With a jolt, you sit up and look around wildly. Eyes widen in an effort to see properly before you remember yourself and have a fireball flickering at your fingertips. That warmth soothes you as you get on your knees. Thin trees reach up into the darkness, trying to pluck the stars from the sky. 

You’re alone. Except you aren’t. 

Between the trees, shrouded in shadow, someone watches. The warm light of your fire sends shadows jumping across a ruined face, has yellow eyes flashing, and exposed teeth glinting. Beneath the din of nighttime creatures, you hear a rattling breath that rushes out from between saliva-slicked teeth. You don’t scream. You don’t move. All you can do is breathe, “It’s you.”

* * *

**Gladiolus**

It’s a long time coming, this confrontation. It’s the first of many. However, this one is far more tame in nature than the ones that follow. It’s benevolent; comes from a good place. Maybe it comes from an inquisitive place as well, but your well-being is at the forefront. Because you started this journey so reticent but you grew to be as loud and vivacious as you could be. More than if you had stayed at the Spire, that’s for sure. Of course, you remain as acerbic and witty as you’ve always been. 

And you and Gladiolus have gone through a lot together- more than most. He’s saved your life and you’ve grown close as a result. The two of you have a lot in common. So eager to prove yourself worthy of being by Noctis’ side. That pigheadedness makes the fact that you’re kindred spirits all the more obvious. But lately? Lately, you act like a stranger. There’s a distance between you that grows by the day. Gladio fears that at this rate, it’ll become a yawning chasm. And he has a clue of what’s wrong. He and the others know that your issue rests with Ardyn; you’d turned to stone the moment you were in the redhead’s presence. But Gladio knows of another issue. 

Ramuh.  


The _Fulgurian_. 

His trial occurred at possibly the worst time for you. So wrapped up in the confusing feelings that Ardyn never failed to evoke in you, you were confronted by the Astral that your family had always called their god. Some of your ancestors even referred to him as your divine summoner. All of that poking and prodding; flashes of those golden eyes in tandem with white teeth; threats and well-wishes. At every turn Ardyn put you on the spot. He kept you on your toes. It was like you two never fell out of step. Except that _now_? Now you’re in service to your kingdom. It was the one thing he always needled you about: 

“Are you _really_ going to serve the people who let your family die?”  


“Do you _honestly_ still pray to the ‘god’ who turned his back on your family?” 

When you’d resolutely answered in the affirmative to both, as you always did and as you always will, there was no longer contempt in his eyes for the foolish child and their little fantasies. No. There was malice for the disobedient mage and their unbreakable honor. Because outside of the Spire, you pose a threat. You’re no longer the mageling trapped in the old college who squeezed  his hand goodbye and wished that they could go with him on his journeys. You’re the gifted enchanter, the competent herbalist, the novice necromancer, and the accidental summoner who serves the King of Lucis. 

Too loyal for your own good, much like your ancestors. A double-edged sort of trait. It benefits all but you. And Ardyn knows that you’ll burn for Noctis Lucis Caelum the way _they_ did for him. He could see it in those sad eyes of yours when you first met. With a glance you took him back in time. And he’d wanted to stay there... But there’s no going back. Forward is the only direction and you two are on a collision course. Ardyn won’t let you hold him back. And when you saw Ramuh for the first time, you almost let Ardyn hold _you_ back. Because all of that self-doubt that he’s so skilled at cultivating rushed forth at the sight of the Astral. 

Where you thought you’d expertly dodged each attack, the wounds manifested from seemingly nowhere like paper-cuts you didn’t know you had until you washed your hands. The pain was comparable enough to such a silly simile. It was bearable but burdensome all at once. You’d been rendered speechless at the sight of the Fulgurian. He was a vision in the darkened sky, highlighted by lightning. He was more than you ever imagined. Throat tightened, full of emotion, and you nearly dropped your staff- nearly dropped to your knees, too. _Yet_... 

Awe slowly twisted into contempt as those yellow eyes gazed down upon your prince. For a second you were that inimical childhood friend you so admired; bitter and resentful. You wondered what your mother would say if she were here. And, like it always did, the pain of her loss hit you so suddenly. Always like a fresh wound; blindsiding you, leaving you breathless, leaving you angry. 

You never got to properly mourn your mother. Her body was neither burned nor buried as far as you know. All you were able to do was light some incense away from camp early in the morning, before anyone had awakened, and pray to Ramuh to put her spirit to rest. The unworthiness of her death has been and always will be a yoke about your neck. It will never cease to embitter you. 

“ _How dare you offer your help now? How dare you ask for more sacrifice after all that’s been lost?_ ” 

It wasn’t what you’d thought you would think upon first seeing your god. You’d hoped to be more gracious, more reverent. You’d hoped to be as worthy as the people whose words you read- the ancestors who were so devoted right until the end. But none of them lived to see him. Only you. Why? Then Ramuh _looked_ at you. You’d stared into the eyes of your family’s creator and all you could think about was how your family had been slaughtered. One by one. Down to _you_. What should have been the highlight of your life was soured by the reality of Ramuh’s inaction. Because he’s real. And he did _nothing_. 

Yet you bent your knee and dropped your head. The tears fell. “Thank you.” 

It was acrid on your tongue. Yes, _thank you_ for letting so many people die. _Thank you_ for leaving in the first place. _Thank you_ for aiding Noctis. Aiding, _not_ protecting. Though you _are_ grateful that Ramuh forged a covenant with Noctis, you know that neither Ramuh nor the other Astrals will be doing any protecting. Ardyn’s words haunted you in that moment. But you turned bitterness into determination. Because the Astrals hardly have a good track-record for watching over humanity and divine intervention always comes at great cost. So, it will be _you_ who will be doing the intervening. No, you don’t liken yourself to an Astral... because _you’ll_ actually get the job done. 

“ _Pride goeth before a fall._ ” 

Yes, well... At least when you fall, you’ll know that you did _everything_ in your power to do right by your friends and family. Gladiolus has been keeping track of the hour that you rise. It’s 4:00 a.m. on the dot. He’s been prepping himself to get enough sleep so that he can tail you when you sneak off to do whatever it is that you don’t want anyone knowing about. Amber eyes watch as you sling your bag over your shoulder and exit the caravan on light feet. The Shield waits a moment and then follows. He spots a glimpse of dusky lavender spirit away into the darkened woods and his brow furrows. Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing? It’s dangerous for you to go alone. You’re just a- _Ugh_. He always has to stop himself from thinking like that. 

He knows you’d hate it if you knew he always lives in fear of you having a repeat of the coeurl incident. Of having a repeat when he’s _not there_ , when it’s out of his hands and out of his _control_... The thought has him hurrying after you. Sweat already beads on his skin, the air so muggy and smelling of rain and chocobo stink. The light from Wiz’s is at his back and his jaw clenches. Though he knows you’re a capable fighter, though he knows you’re a talented mage... He fears for you. But, boy, are you in for a tongue-lashing when he gets to you. 

Amber eyes find you soon enough. He sees you before he hears you, since your tread is so light. Like a specter, you dance between the compact trees with ease, a dot of lavender engulfed by the ever-present darkness. The Shield reaches out a hand to rest on your shoulder, to touch you, but pauses. He doesn’t want to spook you. Little does he know that you’ve known he was following you all the while. Though Gladio is quite spry for his size, you’re a paranoid mage. Spire-living made your hearing keen and your perception top-notch. A prickling of the hairs on the back of your neck and you knew someone was behind you. A warm, comforting presence and you knew it to be Gladiolus Amicitia. 

“Are you going to pray with me? Or do you enjoy this game of cat and mouse?” You suddenly ask, voice low but piercing through the silence of the early morning. Like a crack of thunder, Gladio thinks. 

Crossing his arms, the Shield narrows his eyes at the back of your head as he continues to follow at your heels. “Pray? Is that what you sneak off to do?” He doesn’t believe it. He knows you do more. 

“I’m stocking up on a bunch of goodwill before I do something really bad,” you joke, turning your eyes up to the slowly lightening sky before finally stopping in the sparse woods to peer at the brunet over your shoulder. 

“Hmph. _Bad_?” Everything you’re saying has him frowning more and more. He knows you well enough by this point to know you’re quite sphinx-like with your words. _Especially_ if you’re doing something you shouldn’t. “You plannin’ on telling me what bad thing you’re gonna do, Magey?” 

A wicked smirk tugs the corner of your mouth up, a glint of teeth that always makes his stomach tighten. “It’s a joke, Gladiolus. You should know by now that roughly 90% of what I say is a joke,” you lie. Because although you’re praying for your mother’s sake, you’re also doing it for reassurance. These days, you mostly invoke _her_. Though you have it set in your mind the path that you’ll take, the lengths you’re ready and willing to go to... you’re afraid of doing it alone and without guidance. You’re nervous. Because binding magic? That’s no joke. And it has no punchline when your soul is thrown into the mix. 

However, you know that Ramuh will never deign to answer _you_. You’re _just_ an Iovita. The _worst_ Iovita, you tell yourself. With no heroic feats under your belt, with no life experience or entry in the grimoire, you’re nobody. A nobody who is secretly shaming your family with the things you do in the darkness. The things you do with _daemons_. Sometimes, you hope your mother will answer you when you pray. 

Musk fills the air, tendrils of pale smoke curling up into the sky. Gladiolus keeps a respectful distance from you, not wanting to interrupt even though he’s still brimming with questions. He watches on as you kneel in the damp earth, hands on your knees, in front of the small repurposed inkwell that holds the incense stick. Eyes close and the world is shut out completely. You pray for guidance. Should’ve been more specific on who you wanted it from. While Ramuh hears your prayers but does not heed them, there’s someone who waits eagerly in the shadow. Unblinking yellow eyes watch closely- as closely as they’ve always watched since the day you were born. They wonder if you’ll scream and cry and lash out like the last time they came to your aid. 

Knees ache from the wet chill of the dirt and you take that as your sign to get up. The inkwell is snatched up and tossed in your bag. There’s a shift behind you and you know the Shield is going to resume his line of questioning- not done with you in the slightest. “(y/n).” The low timbre of his voice makes your shoulders slump. “I told you once and I’ll tell you again: You can always talk to me. Whatever you’re doin’, you don’t have to do it alone.” But you’re both too stubborn, by far. While Gladio will eventually go off on his own journey to prove his worth, you’re already on yours. And this is a solo trip. Because although Gladiolus Amicitia believes that he can protect Noctis _and_ you, no one can protect you. Not when you’re the one ripping yourself apart. When you take far too long to respond, Gladio grunts, “You okay?” 

Mouth opens immediately to respond and then your mind catches up to still your tongue. What a strange social convention. You’re expected to say that you’re fine even if you aren’t. Because it’s impolite to impose your issues on others- especially if they’re blameless in what’s going _wrong_ with you. But Gladiolus won’t abide anymore cloak and dagger from you. And he’s never been the type to ask an insincere question of you. The Shield doesn’t play games and games are your fallback. These past few days, you’ve been cold and detached. Hell, you didn’t even _blink_ when yet another imperial base was infiltrated to get the Regalia and you were all confronted by Ardyn _yet again_. But the way the chancellor looked at you? Gladiolus feels a growl in his throat. 

“Magey, tell me.” His patience is wearing thin. He’s going all “soft” in the hopes that you’ll ease up and stop being so evasive. It’s his last line of defense. It somehow makes you smile that the big guy goes the whole “kill ‘em with kindness” route with you. 

“Gladio,” you hum before finally turning to face him, “did you really come out here to pester me?” 

“You bet your ass I did,” the Shield grumbles with a scowl. “What are you _really_ doin’ out here? It’s stupid to come out here by yourself. You could’ve ran into trouble.” 

He can’t know that you’ve been working on binding magic. Because if you tell him that you’re stealing the corrupted souls of daemons and binding them to yourself in order to summon them, in order to un-bind them, all in the hopes of doing it seamlessly _to yourself_ with Noct as the recipient of _your_ soul...? You wonder if there’s a less crazy way of phrasing what you’re doing. Sure, you can point to Lumis’ passages on how binding souls awards the recipient with the ability to utilize properties of the bound soul; namely how Noct will be able to hopefully use his magic without limits, but... 

In the very next passage, Lumis warns against this magic. It’s dangerous. You’ll be like a fount of magic to your royal charge but it will _drain you_. As long as he’s in possession of your soul, as long as he uses it, you won’t have the luxury of your usual unlimited magic. Because your soul will no longer be yours. A strange thing to be ripped in two like that. And you know how insane it sounds. 

“To answer _all_ of your never-ending questions...” you drawl in an effort to stall, “I’m okay but I’m just a little stressed out. Mmhm? Even someone as seemingly limitless and amazing as _I_ am  can succumb to it every now and then. I come out to pray and then I...” The words are stuck in your throat. How funny that you _almost_ want to tell the truth. It’s a selfish notion to ease your burden by sharing it with someone. Even though you just internally scolded yourself over this, even though you know this is _your_ burden to bear alone, you want to confide in him. Because this is Gladiolus, and he never ceases to ease your nerves and make you feel safe. And, Six, what you wouldn’t do to feel safe again. 

“And then you...? You what, Magey?” The brunet’s arms are still crossed to convey his frustration. Gladio isn’t going to stand for anymore bullshitting. 

“I train.” At his raised eyebrows, you stress, “ _By myself_. Specifically by myself.” Do you feel guilty for lying (rather, _half_ lying because you _are_ training)? Yes. But you can’t tell him what you’re doing _now_. Can’t tell him that you’ve been absorbing souls, summoning daemons, and using the powers proper to those daemons- powers you _wouldn’t_ normally have. Because you fear you’ll lower yourself in his eyes. But most importantly you fear he’ll talk you out of it. And if anyone can talk you out of something, it’s Gladiolus Amicitia and his sage advice (plus his disapproving scowls that always seem to be hiding an amused smirk at your expense). Sometimes you feel like an asshole for having had prejudged him as a meathead when you’d had your little Spire-issue profile on him. 

“You’ve been _training_? I’ve been tryin’ to get you to train since we-!” Gladio reels in his frustration. The air is warming up from the sun and the damp smell of earth grows stronger. That musk from the incense still lingers in his nose. Breathing in deeply, he says on the exhale, “I can help you train.” 

You snort, “Uh, yeah, _no_. Though I’m sure it’d be great to be as ripped as you are, I’m not doing the type of training you’re all over, Gladiolus.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He’s secretly pleased that you just said he’s ripped. That means you _look_. 

Feeling a bit hot under the collar at his intense expression, you adjust the strap of your bag and Gladio watches how it drags down the front of your shirt, pulling at a button. “Unless you can create walls of ice, your skillset won’t be much help during _my_ particular type of training. Unless, of course, you’d like to be target practice.” You expect that he’ll back off. You expect that he’ll roll his eyes and leave you be. But Gladiolus doesn’t want you to be alone. From your little near- death experience, he knows you have a tendency toward isolation and repression. And he can tell that that cold severity in you, the one he spotted on day one, won’t mix well with that. And he’s right. 

“Hit me with your best shot, Magey.” 

For a moment, you stand in shock. The thing that snaps you out of it is a bird squawking loudly like it’s being murdered when in reality it’s hungry. With a flinch that you play off as yet another adjustment of your bag, you snark, “Shouldn’t you be eating breakfast or going on a jog?” 

“Enough excuses. We can have breakfast when we get back and I’m sure I’ll work up a good enough sweat with you.” 

Well, looks like you won’t be checking on the daemons today and practicing using their abilities since all this talk lasted until sunrise. It’s a shame. You’ve managed to get a goblin, a flan, and a bomb. You _had_ an imp but when you stored it in your crystal and then reached out for it, it was gone. “You’ll break more than a sweat if you keep it up,” you finally grumble grudgingly, ‘cause there he goes again with the innuendo. 

It’s something you’ll never admit to enjoying. Ever since the Shield discovered that brazen  flirtation turns you into a sweating, stammering mess, he goes all in. Doesn’t matter if you’re alone or in front of the others, Gladio is a straight-up tease and shameless flirt. Usually a pointed look from Iggy or a groan from Noct is enough to get him to cool it, but neither of them are here. And... though you _could_ get Gladiolus Amicitia to bug off with just a word, you don’t. Damn him _and_ his charm. ‘Cause you find yourself reciprocating and encouraging his bad behavior. 

“All right, all right,” Gladio’s cheeks turn a pale, bashful pink at your rebuke. 

You almost flirt back. _Almost_. 

“If you insist on inviting yourself, then I’ll just send Ignis a quick text to tell him we’re out on a date,” you joke. Okay. So you _do_ flirt. It’s always done in this casual way that makes you seem more smooth than you really are. A carefully contrived façade is put up just to get under the brunet’s skin. And, _oh_ , it works splendidly. Amber eyes widen marginally as you whip out your phone. It’s usually around this time that Iggy wakes up and when he finds that you’re not there he typically texts to ask if you’re going to be back for breakfast. The message is hastily typed out and you don’t miss the way Gladio sidles up beside you to peer down at what you write. Which is why you type: “Beating up Gladio in the woods. We’ll be back in time for breakfast.” 

The Shield scoffs when you hit send. “Like hell you are.” 

“What?” Eyes blink up at him and he fights off a blush. “You mean to tell me that you _won’t_ let me win if I ask nicely? You won’t let me feel good about myself?” 

Dark brows knit together. “Gonna have to ask pretty damn nicely for _that_ to happen. If you’re gonna win, it’s gonna be fair and square- none of your dirty tricks.” 

The flash in your eyes is his warning. Gods, he sets himself up so easily just so you can knock him right down. “Oh? You _don’t_ want me to be _dirty_?” You query lightly, an impish grin on your lips. Voice lowers to drawl, “Well, then, Gladiolus... tell me how you want me.” 

“Shut it, Magey. Let’s just go find a good spot to train.” Gladio is trying so damn hard not to blush like a fool under that gaze that’s kept him up many a night. Though he knows he can easily turn this game around on you with the lightest of teases, he secretly enjoys when you take things into your hands. 

And you let him off the hook because you can’t play this angle for too long before you start getting flustered with awkward laughter galore. Throat is cleared curtly and you murmur, “I think there’s a campground around here. That should do.” Twigs and brush snap under the Shield’s boots while you move soundlessly. This has always piqued his curiosity. Gladio has seen you in action before, sure, and he knows you can dodge attacks effortlessly. However, what if you get stuck in close combat? You always rely on ranged spells and the Shield wants to try and broaden your horizons. 

“Know how to throw a punch?” He asks bluntly, arms crossed. 

Eyes roll into the back of your head _immediately_. The stone plateau of the campground is slightly elevated and affords you a pleasant view of the forest that surrounds you- a view you _were_ enjoying until Gladio asked that dumb and, frankly, _insulting_ question. “Six, Gladiolus. You gonna ask me if I know how to tie my own shoes, too? Of course I know how to throw a punch!” 

“Punch me,” he demands, face stoic and impassive. 

“Believe me, though I’ve thought about it many a time, I don’t think that’s how training goes. Plus, I already told you that I practice spells-” 

Amber eyes narrow and he looks down that strong, aquiline nose at you. “Then use your magic and punch me.” 

“What?”  


“Get creative, Magey. What if you get caught in close quarters? What if you can’t put a good  distance between you and your enemy? Use your magic and keep it _close_.”  


Looking around in confusion, you shrug your bag off of your shoulder, toss it to the side, and ask,  “Now?” 

“Some time before I die of old age, yeah,” drawls Gladio, arms falling to his sides. Thinking on your feet, you glance down at the stone plateau of the campground and clench your fists. Stone rips up from the ground and encases your arms up to your elbows. Before Gladio can comment, you lash out and he jumps back out of reach. Amber eyes blaze, a wicked grin on his face. 

“ _Oh, shit._ ” 

You forgot what a zealous fighter he is. Now you remember why you never wanted to spar with him. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” The brunet lunges for you, fists flying, and you duck before swiping his legs out from under him. He doesn’t stay down long, hopping back up and continuing his punching frenzy. Now you’re all about dodging and less so about trying to land any hits. One punch that you barely dodge has his nail nicking your chin. Gladio is irritated. He steps back and scowls at you, dark eyebrows knitted together. “You can’t keep falling back on bein’ passive, (y/n). Get a hit in already. What? You just wanna tire out your enemy and hope for the best?” 

“I’m a _mage_!” You yell right back, already soaked in sweat from that damn sweater and from his relentless assault. Gods, you’re feeling incompetent. Close combat isn’t your game and neither is brute force. You’re all about carefully weaving devastating spells from a safe distance,  _not_ decking people. 

“Do it again!” Gladio barks, not even sweating. “Stop screwin’ around, (y/n)! You think you can protect Noct, much less _yourself_ , if you fight like that?” 

Something in you snaps. That little needling insecurity. The punch that you throw his way has more force behind it than you intended; a combination of frustration and exhaustion. He doesn’t dodge in time since you lash out unexpectedly, getting nailed right in the chest and falling flat on his back. A laugh escapes you at that but you don’t laugh for too long. Because he doesn’t make a sound. Doesn’t move a muscle. Dread leadens your stomach, makes it twist and churn. Stone rains down in pebbles from your hands before you scramble over to the Shield to press your ear to his chest, knees smarting from how quickly and carelessly you drop down. 

Just as you put your hands on his chest and lean down, two strong arms grip you into a hug, one hand giving your back a congratulatory smack that knocks the breath out of you, and Gladio laughs, “That was good, (y/n)! That’s what I want to see- Hey!” 

Palm stings from how hard you smack his chest before shoving yourself out of his grip. "Gods! I thought you were dead!" You yell in fury, smacking Gladio's chest again but still immensely relieved. “Don’t do stupid shit like that again or I’ll _actually_ kill you! _On purpose_!” 

Amber eyes blink up at you, bewildered, before a grin crosses his lips. "You were scared, huh?" 

Arms are thrown in the air in disbelief. "You made me think I'd killed you, asshole!" 

"You were scared." There’s no humor in his eyes anymore. A callused thumb comes up and drags across your left cheekbone, whisking away a tear you didn’t even know was there. “Sorry. I  didn’t mean to scare ya. Just so you know, it wasn’t an act. You winded me pretty damn good.” 

Embarrassed from your crying, you look away and scoff, “Yeah, well, you deserved it. I’m never sparring with you again, you damn adrenaline junkie.” Before he can protest, you stand up and sigh, “It’s time to head back. I need a shower.” 

"Sweat is the cologne of success," he says like that will convince you not to shower, still on the ground with his dark hair splayed out around his head like a halo. If you look closely, you can see that his chest is already beginning to bruise. Guilt twists your gut. 

With a cringe, you groan, "Wow. _No_." 

Seeing as you don’t have the same mindset as him when it comes to working up a good sweat, the Shield stiffly gets up and ribs you, “That was a pretty short training session. You always so stingy with your practice time?” 

“Only when it’s interrupted by some pushy brunet.” 

“Sorry.” 

You sigh and concede, “If you’d like, you can watch me perform my drills with my staff some time. I’ll even let you critique my form and give me pointers.” You’ll regret that later. 

“Yeah. Sounds good, Magey. Make sure you put on a good show for me.” You burn at that comment. Burn at the way those eyes turn to molten gold and that mouth tugs up into a sinful smirk. He pauses his smolder to dig in his back pocket, expression serious. “By the way, I got a bandage.” 

At the mentioning of first-aid, your chin smarts. “ _By the way_ , you should _file_ your nails. And you carry bandaids around all the time? How often do you scrape your knee, Gladio?” 

“Carry ‘em around just for you,” he grunts. And he means it, because you’re always pricking your finger on all manner of plants or getting little cuts from metal bits and junk that you pick up off the ground. And- Oh, he _has_ to be joking! The bandaids have cartoon characters! It’s like he picks the most ridiculous one before crooking his finger at you. “C’mere.” 

“Hell no! You aren’t putting that on my face!” You try to back away but the Shield hooks one arm around your waist and somehow that renders you totally immobile. “ _Gladiolus_ ,” you whine as the backing is carefully taken off of the bandage and it’s smoothed onto your chin with delicate fingers. 

“You’re too damn cute,” he chuckles, a crooked smirk on his face. 

“I’m certainly _not_ cute, Gladiolus! I’m a _mage_!” 

Gladio narrows those butterscotch eyes and cups your cheek just to prove a point. He relishes the way you go hot under his hand, the way you press up against him without needing to be pulled closer. “See?” His voice reverberates through you and your eyelids flutter at the sensation. “Too damn cute.” 

Despite what you know lies ahead, you relax in his presence. You’re at ease. Though you aren’t sure that everything will work out, Gladiolus is strong and dependable. He makes you feel safe even as you walk blindly into the unknown- even when he isn’t at your side. He shoots you a smirk, warm amber eyes glinting. Gladiolus cherishes the time you two spend together. Even the arguments. Because he finds it infinitely humorous how you take everything so seriously; nose always in the air and eyes always hooded. The junk food and the sparring, the book suggestions  and the dirty jokes. It’s all over too soon. When you leave, he holds it against you at first. But he finds himself following your trail much like today, when he followed you into the darkness of the wilderness. He’ll always follow. 

This relaxation, this state of tranquility, opens you up to something you couldn’t have possibly foreseen. Though Florus had warned you and you’d already selectively blocked out bits and pieces of your childhood, your defenses are lowered. Walls that had been built up for good reason come crumbling down. It starts off with a jarring crack. 

You wake up much earlier than usual. Except you aren’t really awake. Body moves, eyes open, and you walk away from camp. There’s a voice that you follow in the darkness. It whispers all the while; drowned out by your footsteps before rising to a haunting trill just to be heard. It’s desperate and forlorn; makes your heart clench just from the sound of it. But in the dream, you aren’t even sure if you’re seeking out the source of the voice at all. 

You can feel someone standing behind you as you walk, cool breath on the back of your neck, fingers like fire tracing down your spine. There’s an urgency to their words- words that you can’t understand. Outside, alone, you stand in the darkness. Something tells you that you’re waiting. Waiting for what, though? You don’t know. You feel an urge to look behind you at the creature that stands at your back. Skin prickles with goosebumps that quickly welt into painful blisters from the heat of that scalding hand. Tears prick your eyes, mouth opens in a silent scream. Muscles stiffen and you put your weight on your left foot. Body turns to confront your stalker- 

“ _Don’t look back!_ ” 

And then you wake up. Crickets chirp, owls hoot, and your heart pounds. All manner of nighttime noises greet you but they’re far too loud- far too _close_. It takes a moment for you to realize that you’re no longer in the safety of that hunter-green tent, surrounded by slumbering men. Dampness from the earth beneath you seeps into your skin. With a jolt, you sit up and look around wildly. Eyes widen in an effort to see properly before you remember yourself and have a fireball flickering at your fingertips. That warmth soothes you as you get on your knees. Thin trees reach up into the darkness, trying to pluck the stars from the sky. 

You’re alone. Except you aren’t. 

Between the trees, shrouded in shadow, someone watches. The warm light of your fire sends shadows jumping across a ruined face, has yellow eyes flashing, and exposed teeth glinting. Beneath the din of nighttime creatures, you hear a rattling breath that rushes out from between saliva-slicked teeth. You don’t scream. You don’t move. All you can do is breathe, “It’s you."


	33. The Tourist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _And can we get a lil something something based off of that Gladdy fic? Where he was teasing her about how she's been beaten by enemies? It doesn't have to be specific to Gladdy or anything! Maybe headcannons?_
> 
> This is from the shame game Gladio played with you in “A Worthy Opponent” but it fits better earlier in the timeline. The format is a little strange. I’m breaking it up by each creature that Gladio listed except for the gaiatoad, killer bee, and goblin. It just got too long and didn’t break up evenly. Still, I hope y’all like it.
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Angst, Everyone Needs to Leave the Mage Alone, World’s #1 Shit Magnet, Defs a Glass Cannon, You’ve Got Red on You, Second Hand Shame Y’all

**The Tourist**

You’re a skilled fighter for a mage. 

That caveat, “for a mage,” is necessary. Otherwise? It can hardly be argued that you’re a  _fighter_. You jump and dodge and occasionally whack a creature across the face with your staff. Physicality ends there for you. Because why would you need to punch something when you have magic? Why bother getting up close and personal?

It’s a concept that the others take a while to understand.  _They_  have cloth armor and don’t suffer terribly for it, so why shouldn’t it be that way for  _you_? Therein lies the huge difference between you and your pals: They aren’t mages, so comparing you to them isn’t exactly fair. Casting spells requires a certain level of concentration that cold-cocking a goblin doesn’t. All of your energy goes toward magic.

No energy is left over for, say,  _blocking_. ‘Cause you? You can take a punch. You took several like a champ back in the Spire. So the issue isn’t that you’re some frail creature that bruises like a banana and breaks a bone if the wind is too strong. You’re resilient, maybe you can even be called hard to kill. But casting spells leaves a  _massive_  blindspot in your defenses.

Magic has to be precise or else it can be terribly unforgiving. Noct should know that better than anyone, considering he’s just about incapacitated the whole group with lightning spells before. And your peculiar brand of magic is absolutely devastating. It would be a nightmare if  _you_  were to engage in some nice and wholesome friendly fire.

With this in mind, you find it totally unfair that Gladiolus gives you as much grief as he does. He’s adamant about you doing training drills the first time you’re knocked out in battle. Your profession, your  _skill_ , is undermined by the fact that Gladiolus wants you to be _more_  of a powerhouse. You’ve got the power! Oh, nobody can say that you  _don’t_. Many a fight has been won by your hand.

It’s just a lack of understanding and perhaps too much concern. Nobody wants to let you die…  _again_. And each time an enemy breaks formation and goes scrambling to the mage at the back of the line, the guys nearly have a group heart-attack. Why the hell are enemies  _so_  attracted to you? You snottily point out to Gladio one night that it’s because they know  _you’re_  the powerhouse.

A lot of attention is drawn by your spells. You’re a beacon on the back line: Hands raised up to the sky and head tilted back as fire rains from above. Enemies are eager to get you out of the way because of the damage you inflict, which causes the guys to have to drop what they’re doing and rush to your aid with their heart in their throat. But sometimes? They don’t make it.

**Flan:**

Like most close encounters, your lowest moment in fighting history occurs in close quarters. Crestholm Channels. Admittedly, you were all rather under-prepared for this place but Noct was pushy and insistent upon checking it out. All being adventurous sorts and eager to please the royal, none of you protested too much. But perhaps, in hindsight, you should’ve.

And in hindsight, Noct blames himself.

Because you’d already expressed feelings of fatigue. A phlegmatically sighed, “What time is it?” and a yawn hidden behind the back of your hand. Noct had ribbed you about acting like an old mage and having the stamina of one. That joke, delivered with gleaming blue eyes, stifled further complaints and contributed to your hesitance to call for aid in battle.

The tone was already set when you dropped off of the ladder down into the sewer and immediately got water in your boots. Being the paranoid sort, you took it as a sign. Being the reserved sort, you kept that to yourself. It was the beginning of a long day for the others but a comparatively short one for you. ‘Cause you were unconscious for the majority of it.

Crammed in a corridor with ereshkigal and black flan, you were overwhelmed. Bodies were pressed against you; friendly elbows jabbed you and feet stomped yours, your lungs started to constrict with a sudden feeling of claustrophobia. As you attempted to put some distance between yourself and the rabble, yellow eyes were suddenly transfixed upon you.

You were there with that staff and its little crystal and you just looked like  _such_  a wonderful target. Especially when lightning arced from your fingertips and made one of the flan’s fellows explode. The gelatinous enemy melted into the ground before reemerging behind you, where it stalked forward. Blue eyes glanced in your direction to check on you and the blood in Noct’s veins froze.

He swears he thought he might’ve died of fright.

That shouted warning of his was never heard. The daemon crashed its slimy body into you and sent you flying into the stone wall of the corridor. The lamest moment of your life: Body-slammed into a wall by a flan. Silver-lining? At least you were unconscious when Gladiolus started laughing once Iggy reassured everyone that you were okay. Noct jabbed him in the ribs for it.

**Imp:**

One moment of inattention. One mine-cart track. One imp. One well-timed push.

You were literally felled  _by an imp_.

Down in Balouve Mines, you and your blond best friend got separated from the others. How did you get separated? Well… You both keep that a secret to yourselves. You can only imagine the disappointed look Iggy would give you two if he learned you’d found “a really cool looking rock” and Prompto had you pose with it for pictures, leading you two to both wind up left behind.

“Uh… Wh-Where  _is_  everyone?” Prom wondered, voice a little high.

Already so antsy from the overall atmosphere of the place, Prompto was in distress and you were determined to be his hero. For his part, Prom was trying to be brave. But every fallen pebble or strange noise had him jumping and nearly being the Scooby-Doo to your Shaggy. You hate to admit that his instinct to cling to you for safety sort of inflated your ego and emboldened you.

However, the imps seemed determined to see you fail as his heroic mage. Before you and Prom knew it, you found yourselves mobbed on a track, the ground almost unseeable from such a height in the darkness. Flames engulfed your side of the track as you held the imps back. Shots rang through the air as Prom fought valiantly.

They had you surrounded, coming in unrelenting waves. Spindly fingers slashed and clawed, teeth gnashed in the air. All Prompto can recall of the event was that one moment you had your back against his and he could feel your shoulder blades move as you swung your staff around, fireballs shooting out of it, and the next he heard a scream and you were suddenly gone.

Honestly, unlike the flan incident the imp incident wasn’t  _entirely_  your fault. With the flan, you panicked and paid the price. With the imp, Prompto panics and you pay the price for him. Though he leaves this part out of his narrative, it isn’t done intentionally or cruelly. It’s just that in his fear, his memory became a  _bit_  spotty.

Prom huffed, sweat beading on his brow, “ _Why_  are there so many of th- Ah!”

While he whined, an imp had slashed him across the chest. Prom gasped and shouted, and you instinctively turned around to render aid. It was as you were turning, bodyweight shifting to where it was just  _slightly_  unbalanced, that the last imp you’d been fending off lurched forward and grabbed you. The two of you went falling off of the track,  _both of you_  yelling out in shock.

Pro: The imp cushioned your fall.

Con: Imps don’t make good cushions.

**Spiracorns and Anaks:**

Same shit, different day. Different creature, too.

Ignis Scientia has learned to fear when you and an anak or a spiracorn are in the same vicinity. Even when he drives by them, his stomach twists and churns a moment and he glances at you in the rearview mirror. It all stems from the one time where an anak calf literally kicked you halfway across the battlefield and Iggy swore he died the moment he saw it happen.

You had been keeping an anak stag off of Noct when the calf attacked. It was a moment that deeply embittered you. ‘Cause you’d  _just_  been thinking about how it was unfortunate that these majestic creatures had to be hunted for supposed habitat destruction because the babies (though massive) were so cute. And then the bastard kicked you.

“(y/n) is down!” Called someone who vaguely sounded like your favorite glasses-wearing caffeine addict. But you were rather discombobulated; rolling off onto one side, feeling like you had a chest full of glass shards as you shakily got onto your knees and gasped for air that refused to fill your lungs. It was a rattling, desperate sound that haunted Iggy and made shivers run up his spine.

Too bad it wasn’t a one-off.

Hooves have become a familiar nemesis to you thanks to a spiracorn knocking you over and trampling you. It felt as though those hooves literally stomped the air right out of your lungs. It was honestly a miracle that your ribs didn’t crack the first time. Or the second time. Or the third time.  _Or_ … Ignis swears he’s going to die of a stroke before an anak or spiracorn finally tramples you to death.

The only good thing these traumatic events serve to do for the bespectacled brunet is reassure him that you’re tough to kill. He knew it when he mowed you down like grass with the Regalia and he knows it every time a spiracorn parkours off of your chest or an anak kicks you into another dimension and you get right back up, heaving for breath and in dire need of a health potion.

And he’s always there with one at the ready. For your ego’s sake, Ignis Scientia won’t inform you that he has a spare health potion specifically reserved for you- it’s even labelled “(y/n)’s Emergency Potion.” Being the fastest of the lot, he’s able to juggle protecting his primary charge, Noctis, and his secondary charge, you. At least, he tells himself he can juggle the duo.

Iggy has started drinking chamomile tea for his nerves.

**Tonberries:**

They have knives. You didn’t know they had knives until you were in the middle of a tonberry shivving gangbang. Like a mother who is easily roused by the sound of her crying baby, Gladiolus (the second heaviest sleeper of the group) jolted awake and bolted out of the tent the second he heard the familiar sound of his magical friend yelling: “What the fuck?!”

The Shield sprinted through the darkness, heart hammering in his chest, following the sound of metal on metal and strained grunts until he broke out of the forest where you’d all made camp and found himself on a road. There you were, all sweaty and covered in blood, in the middle of the strangest thing he’d ever seen: A tonberry mosh pit.

His weapon materialized in his hand- a pure blue light washing over the darkened street- and set to work saving the mage in distress. By his hand, the tonberries were easily felled. Maybe one or two made it out alive, scampering off into the darkness. Gladiolus didn’t pursue them only because he was so worried about you.

The moment he ceased to be able to hear those little feet hastily slapping against asphalt in panicked retreat, he rounded on you and bellowed, “What the hell are you doing out here?! What the hell were you _thinking_?!”

You thought he was going to laugh at you after he saved you, as he’s wont to do. But one look at the multiple stab wounds you bore and Gladio’s sense of humor was as dead as you should’ve been. There was hardly any white left of your button-up and before you could fully explain that you’d been out trying to find things to sell for extra gil, the Shield scooped you up in his arms and took you back to camp.

“Damn tourist.”

He’d called you a tourist before. It was said jokingly, light-hearted, because you always tugged on Noct’s sleeve or gasped loudly to draw someone’s attention in order to get everyone to stop what they’re doing and let you explore. This quest has been put on pause in the pursuit of plants and photos. Prompto Argentum is your fellow tourist.

But when Gladiolus called you a tourist  _then_ , it had negative connotations. Because he explained that night, neck red with frustration and amber eyes gleaming as he took a damp rag to your wounds, that you seem to be here in this world for a very short stay. You’ll “ooh” and “ahh” over new and spectacular things, head in the clouds, and you won’t be in this world for very long.

You’re simply passing through, enjoying the sights, and then you’ll be gone.

It’s a shared fear. The guys all think it. The memory of you and the coeurl outside Keycatrich Tunnels hasn’t faded in the slightest. Noctis still has nightmares of holding your lifeless body in his arms. Gladiolus vividly remembers the way your eyes stared up at the sky as he struggled to resuscitate you. Ignis and Prompto still hear your scream in their nightmares.

They’ve all secretly elected themselves to be the mage’s savior, unbeknownst to you or each other.


	34. Ignis: Coffee Stains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pre-relationship and post-"The Game," so you and Iggy know that you like each other but things are still touch and go. This is just fluff and it was sorta a request. I'm not too sure because I think, if it was, I botched it, which is why I was hesitant about marking this as a request. The request in question reads: _Hi there! I just wanted to tell you that I loved your story about Ignis and the reader eating his food pranks. If we could get a continuation of that of some sorts that'd be great!_
> 
> Sorry if this isn't what you were hoping for, anon! Anyway, hope y'all like this!
> 
> **Warnings:** Mild Language, Intense Tense Flippage, An Acquired Taste, Crushes, Secondhand Shame is Real, Mage Magnetism, It's Not What it Looks Like!, OOC Galore

**Coffee Stains**

Ignis Scientia runs off of jet fuel.

This is discovered when he makes you coffee and politely wonders how you take it. “Like you,” you say, completely oblivious of what that all entails. Besides, you two are on the same level, aren’t you? Ignis is only human and you do just as much work as him. There couldn’t  _possibly_  be some huge discrepancy between what you two find passable in your coffee… Could there?

But, boy, there were so many hints that were dropped for you during every senseless cup that had been brewed over this trip. From motel coffee to diner coffee. Coffee served in a five-star restaurant to the type that’s flicked out of a thin packet and stirred into hot water. Sure, you’d squinted out of the corner of your eye when Noct’s retainer emptied not one but  _three_  of those instant coffee packets into his cup. But…

“Are you certain?”

For the briefest of moments, you hesitate and you aren’t sure why. It’s some latent, primal urge for self-preservation. Somehow, your subconscious recognizes the threat based off of each seemingly meaningless observation you made concerning Ignis Scientia’s coffee habits. Too bad you don’t realize that. Instead, you brush off that momentary pause and insist, a charming smile upon your lips, “Yes. Of course.”

That smile of yours is returned- albeit a bit more dazzling coming from the man you’re totally taken with- and Iggy turns around to set to work at his makeshift kitchen. Soon enough, the sounds of water percolating reaches your ears and a rich, earthy aroma fills the campsite’s air. In your mind, you’re harkened back to the first time Ignis ever made you a cup of coffee.

He hadn’t asked for your preferences back then, the two of you having still been relatively unknown factors to each other so he wasn’t exactly willing to kowtow to the whims of a stranger. So, you believe that  _that_ particular cup was how he typically prepared his caffeine fix. It was the color of caramel; not a lot of cream and just a hint of sugar. It was as bold as he is; just as strong, too.

In reality, though he’s always been rather taciturn with strangers, he’d gone soft on you that day. You’d just gone through a literal gauntlet of hunts to prove your mettle to the guys and Ignis thought you needed a bit of a treat. Funny. His idea of a “treat” is a splash of cream and a pinch of sugar in one’s coffee. But you, unfortunately, don’t know any of this.

And now that you two know each other, now that there’s a mutual respect and liking, Ignis is perfectly willing and totally happy to play the part of a server to you.

You really should’ve taken the opportunity to specify exactly how you take your coffee right down to the letter. He would’ve committed it to memory. However, you just  _have_  to be a subtle suck up by not dictating something so mundane. You just  _have_  to allow that competitive streak of yours to bleed into the pleasantries and the tedium of life on the road. Because, in your mind, you’re good enough for Ignis Scientia’s brew.

A hard worker, you figure you can take what he dishes (or  _pours_ ) out. Many a morning you’ve come to the breakfast table covered in dirt. It’s why Iggy has actually forked over some gil to buy you jeans since it physically pained him to see your nice Spire slacks caked in mud. Your penchant for early morning field work has also negated any further criticism of your _other_  penchant for not engaging in group training.

And today is no different. The pale blue of your jeans is marred with reddish brown dirt at its well-worn knees. An old flannel button-up that you picked up from a second-hand shop (Ignis had internally screamed not because you paid for a hand-me-down but because the damn thing clearly hadn’t even been washed _before_  you purchased it) is speckled with vibrant pollen. So, this cup of coffee? You’re so ready for it.

It’s almost like a test for yourself. If you can handle how he takes his coffee, you can handle the posh and totally-out-of-your-league strategist. A ridiculous test, really. The bespectacled brunet would blush up to the tips of his ears if he was privy to such a private thought. He’d cast those green eyes down demurely for a moment before turning them up to scald you down to your core, a subtle smirk on his lips.

And when you insist that you take your coffee just like him, Iggy is quietly impressed. To make matters worse, what keeps you from backtracking and saving yourself is that you can  _see_  that he’s impressed. Doesn’t have to say anything- no lilting hum like he does when you make dinner for a change or when you surprise him with one of those limited edition Ebony flavors. No. It’s all in those expressive green eyes.

Gods, you realize, sitting here on a canvas chair at camp, that you’d do  _anything_  for those looks. To get those glinting gazes from across the campfire or in the rearview mirror? It never fails to make your blood buzz in your veins. Such meaningful looks earned for affectionate actions, funny jokes, or even mindless trivia and today you get it _just_  for saying that you take your coffee like him.

This is why you don’t stop him when you see him prepare to pour your cup, your very specific coffee preferences on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you raise your hand, open your mouth, and quietly go “Ah-!” before cutting yourself off and dropping your hand back down onto your lap with a grimace. Being in love sucks. Yes, it  _sucks_  because it makes you do foolish things.

How foolish can lying about your  _coffee preferences_  be, you may wonder?

Well, it’s foolish enough to make anxiety quicken your pulse when you begin to smell something a little  _odd_  in the air intermixed with the familiar aroma of coffee. It’s so early in the morning that the sun isn’t even out yet, stars still twinkling but slowly fading out of view as sun rays begin to peak over the horizon. It’s so early that neither Gladio nor Prompto have set out for their usual morning jog.

Iggy has to prepare yours and his morning cuppa mostly by lamplight. This lack of light makes you second guess if he prepared the coffee correctly, because when that leggy brunet saunters on over to you, he hands you a cup of ink along with a muffin. You do a double-take even as your thanks fall from your lips. Eyes blink owlishly down into the seemingly bottomless depths of your freshly prepared cup of piping hot caffeine.

“Um, excuse me, I-” Before you say anything you might regret, you tilt the enamel mug to and fro. Well, it certainly  _moves_  like a liquid, whatever the hell it is. Eerily enough, the maybe-liquid seems to swallow up all available light, not reflecting a damn thing from the little lantern at Iggy’s makeshift kitchen. The home cook raises his eyebrows and you smile shakily. “Sorry. I was afraid you didn’t hear me thank you. Thank you!”

A confused smile cracks Iggy’s lips and he narrows his eyes at you. He rests his hands on his hips, towering over you from his standing position right in front of your chair. “You’re behaving awfully strangely this morning, (y/n). But you’re most welcome.” Then he turns around and returns to the pot of coffee to prepare his own cup. Your wicked eyes watch his every move, squinting when he adds… nothing suspicious.

Maybe one too many espresso shots? It’s hard to tell with his back to you. With a grimace, you shoot your brunet comrade a glance as he returns to sit by your side. “The roads should be clear to Lestallum by this point,” Ignis conversationally informs you, sipping his coffee and scrolling through what you suppose is a news site on his phone.

“Really? I figured one or two blockades might still be up. Y’know, ‘cause the imperials are all about  _protecting_  Lucians,” you reply tightly, eyes not once leaving his lips just to be sure that he’s actually drinking his alleged coffee and that this isn’t some prank.

Listen, ever since you took a little too long to realize that Ignis sometimes pulls food pranks, you’ve been gun-shy when he hands you something suspect; not sure if a meal is legit or if you actually shouldn’t eat it. But when Ignis does nothing more than give you an affirmative hum, nonverbally expressing his agreement with your cautious statement before taking another sip, you squint back down at your beverage.

“ _This… is supposed to be coffee?_ ” You wonder, stuck between feeling awe and horror for the blackhole in your mug.

Though it has the familiar earthy aroma of coffee, its similarities to that oft hailed caffeinated beverage end there. Not even the black coffee you’d drink back at the Spire looked or smelled like this. The black coffee you’re accustomed to still had a very obvious brown shade to it and its scent didn’t hit your nose in a bizarrely offensive way like this swill.

A flicker of green dances your way and you hasten to slap on your supplicant’s smile before bringing the mug to your lips. That verdant gaze remains on you for a moment longer, fine eyebrows slightly knitted as Ignis wonders what’s wrong with you. He erroneously assumes that you’re worrying about the imperial blockades since the two of you were just discussing them.

Already attuned to the nuances of your behavior, your friend has noticed a strange tension in you as of late. With merely an accidental bump of his hand or his elbow, you jump as if you’ve just been shocked. Sometimes he even catches you staring intently at him with an expression on your face that he can’t puzzle out. Right now, he assumes this is one of those moments and he mentally damns you for being so difficult to read.

Finally, Iggy returns his gaze to his phone and takes another sip of coffee. A satisfied hum reverberates from the back of his throat at the robust flavor. Each sip reinvigorates him in a way that Ebony can’t do with just one can- hence why he drinks as many as he does in a day. It’s just that there isn’t a canned coffee on the market that’s as strong as he’d like and Ebony is the strongest he’s found without the coffee tasting sour.

This is basically all espresso shots. Seriously. Ignis Scientia takes his morning coffee with as many espresso shots as he can possibly get away with without his heart exploding.

And you’re about to find that out the hard way.

“Anyway,” you drawl, taking your own phone out to log the plants you collected for future reference so you can figure out what sorts of potions you can fashion out of them, “I was thinking that we should head back to Hammerhead before we get to Lestallum.” The mug comes up to your mouth, you tilt the heated enamel toward you. “The Regalia is looking a little rough-” A sip is taken to punctuate your statement.

The second the coffee hits your tongue- and I mean the  _very second_ \- it’s like the poor muscle gets all dried out and it shrivels up. In fact, your entire  _mouth_  goes dry. That drying feeling creeps right into the back of your throat and spreads down your esophagus. Try as you might, you can’t fight off an instinctual hacking cough. To your credit, you try to keep it down.

Coughing into your mouth with your lips trying in vain to stay clamped shut, however, isn’t cutting it. Like your body is attempting to reject something truly heinous, you’re now stuck in a coughing fit, tears pricking the corners of your eyes and hand slapped over your mouth so you don’t spit everywhere. It’s  _very_  attractive. But, dammit, you can’t find it in yourself to care that you’re turning strange colors right before Iggy’s very eyes.

Bitter.

This “coffee” is so godsdamned  _bitter_.

Alarmed, Ignis leaps up, cup of coffee be damned. In his haste to attend to you, he doesn’t even realize that he’s just burned himself and stained his shirt. The tactician kneels before you, one hand on your chest, and he pushes you back so your airway can clear. It’s an effort to move you, considering you’re all folded over onto yourself; nearly pretzeling yourself in a full-body recoil just to get away from that taste.

“(y/n)! What’s wrong?” Again, Ignis tries to get you to sit back, pressing insistently on your shoulders this time.

“Oh-Oh,  _gods_! It’s like my insides just got desiccated!” You cough and wheeze, face all scrunched up so you can’t see Ignis’ expression morph from one of alarm into total confusion. Hands flap around because you don’t know what to do with them. You definitely aren’t going to use them to pick that cup of coffee back up, that’s for damn sure. “Are you trying to kill me?!”

Aaaaaaaand now the confusion on Iggy’s face turns into offense.

First of all, how  _dare_ you? Ignis Scientia will have you know that that’s a  _very_  high-class brew that you’re turning your cute little nose up at, thank you very much! But he won’t say that right now. He’s still a little concerned, after all, considering it’s not like you make a habit of trying to offend him… or like you ever spit on yourself on purpose.

Besides, he  _had_ insisted in the wake of that prank food faux pas that you tell him when you don’t like something rather than grin and bear it. ‘Cause gods know the others always tell him when they don’t enjoy something. Funnily enough, right now you’re being even more dramatic than  _Prompto_  was with the damn  _tofu_  and  _this_  is damn fine  _coffee_. And you literally just told him that you enjoy your coffee like this!

The brunet rocks back on his heels, nonplussed and mildly insulted. “Excuse me?” His voice is flat.

All discombobulated from that near-death experience, you don’t catch on to the strategist’s tone and you can’t see beyond your tears to notice his stony expression. “This is worse than the time when I was  _actually poisoned_.” Chest still so tight, you hiss, “Are you even human to be able to drink something like this? Damn, Scientia!”

“Are you quite finished?” Iggy snaps, arms crossed even though he’s still kneeling before you. When all you do is blink at him, those pained tears evaporating in an instant at the sound of his irritation, Ignis stands with a sigh. “You had me genuinely worried over nothing.”

And with that, he turns abruptly on his heel and goes back to his seat. Well, before he can actually sit, he has to pick up his fallen mug. Intense eyes scan the enamel for cracks and, finding none, Ignis returns to the makeshift kitchen to brew himself another cup. The brunet doesn’t bother to ask if you need yours freshened up. A lack of pleasantries is the biggest indicator to you that he’s actually pissed.

Gosh, the last person you want to upset is  _Ignis_. Sure, you may enjoy screwing around with everyone (although… you  _were_  sincere about the coffee tasting like hot garbage), but the fun stops when no-one is laughing.

Shame makes your stomach churn… or maybe it’s all that espresso. Suppose you  _did_  overreact? Just a bit? Your gaze drifts down to the splash of dark liquid near Ignis’ chair. Wow. He really had leapt to your aid, huh? Now, a shamed blush begins to creep up your neck and spill across your cheeks. In your seat, you fidget, waiting for Ignis to return to his chair by your side.

As soon as he does, green eyes determinedly looking everywhere but at you, you flag the guy down like he’s a waiter before he can even sit. “Wait a second.”

A long, tired inhale through his nose is followed by a short exhale through his mouth. “What is it now?”

Yeah? What is it  _now_?

In truth, you wanna make it up to Ignis. Sure, he already made himself a new cup of coffee so it’s not like you can make things up to him in that way, but… How about doing laundry? As it stands, he smells like a giant cup of espresso and his striped button-up has a caramel-colored stain on the right sleeve. After making the guy feel like garbage by insulting his coffee, you figure the least you can do is clean his shirt.

Teeth gnaw on your bottom lip for a second, allowing you to reconsider what you’re about to say since you’re positive he’s way too particular about how his laundry is done to allow you to put your little gremlin hands on his shirt. Right when Ignis thinks you’re pulling another stunt, you blurt, “You’ve got coffee all over you and… Oh, my gosh. I think you got burned!”

“Oh.” Iggy’s brow puckers, gaze following where your wide eyes stare. On his right forearm leading down to his wrist, his skin is burned pink and raw from his scalding coffee. Even the side of his hand is a little burned. The brunet quickly appraises his wound and gauges that it’s merely a minor irritation, nothing serious. With a hum that’s far too indifferent for your liking, he confesses, “I hadn’t noticed.”

“Come here,” you insist, beckoning him closer to you. Hooded eyes and a flat frown are all you’re given. You roll your wicked eyes and snort, an impish grin quirking your lips despite the fact that you’re supposed to be contrite, “ _C’mon_ , Scientia. The worst I can possibly do right now is accidentally cough up remnants of that abomination to mankind onto you.”

Slender arms cross over his chest. “You know, you’re  _hardly_  endearing yourself to me right now.”

Your expression softens into something less cruel when you notice the way his face tightens the second his hand accidentally bumps against the burn on his arm. Now you stand and gesture for Ignis to sit, taking his coffee from him and setting it on the ground. He complies with little to no fuss, given you aren’t wearing that devious look upon your face.

Knelt before him, you take his arm in your hands, gentle as can be. Ignis clears his throat. It’s oddly tight for whatever reason. Those deep green eyes are fixated on how carefully you treat him, almost like he’s made of glass. Your head tilts to the side, appraising his burn. It’s nothing serious, he was right about that, but you still want to help even if white magic isn’t your strength.

“Here,” you mumble, fingertips buzzing with energy. “It’s not a healing spell, but…”

With no knowledge of white magic, you must rely, as per usual, on black. Still, nobody ever said a little black magic can’t be used creatively. And right now you’ve got fingertips made of ice, the skin a pale, crystalline blue. The soft, sharp intake of breath on Iggy’s behalf feeds your ego just a tad. It takes everything you’ve got not to beam with pride.

Instead of posturing, you murmur, “I’m sorry for frightening you, Ignis.”

“It’s all right.” He watches you closely; how your brow knits in concentration, the slight pout of your bottom lip. Color begins to rise to his cheeks when you quickly cast your gaze upward toward him before returning your focus to the task at hand. “You didn’t mean any harm.”

Cold kisses his reddened skin, causing goosebumps to erupt along the surface. Soothing coolness alleviates the mildly uncomfortable tightness of his skin. Green eyes watch attentively as you continue to dance your icy fingertips across his forearm. There’s no need for you to touch him. This spell doesn’t have to be so hands-on and you both know it.

Many a time Ignis has witnessed your casual magic. He’s seen you shoot a burst of cool air Noct’s way when the prince has complained about the dry heat of Leide. He’s even seen you playfully do it to Gladio when the Shield comes back from a run, covered in sweat. This spell is something that you can do from across camp if you’d like. But that’s not what either of you would prefer in this moment.

“Feel any better?” You wonder, voice so soft.

Ignis clears his throat, a smile on his lips. ”Yes. I dare say that was an effective spell, (y/n). I may need you to use it more often in the future.”

“Really?” You ask, totally oblivious, “You foresee that being necessary? You’re hardly carless with- Oh.” And just like that, a blush comes rushing up into your face when you see the heated look in Ignis' expressive eyes. One more meaningful look from the man and you've earned it by being so attentive and caring. You'd really do anything for these looks... The thought has that blush of yours intensifying.

“Yes.” Ignis smiles and gently flicks your forehead, a habit he’s developed; a weaponized form of affection that he only uses with you. “ _Oh_.”

Before anything else can be said, before anything can be done, Prompto bursts out of the tent in tacky jogging shorts, raring to go on his morning jog. Big blue eyes blink frantically at the sight of (y/n) Iovita knelt before Ignis Scientia, almost right between the older brunet’s knees. Then, slow as can be, Prompto backs away right back into the tent, earning himself a grunt of complaint from Gladio, whom he backs into.

A tortured sigh escapes you and you stand, sorry to see the moment go. Shooting Iggy a self-deprecating smile, you warn, “Well, get ready to hear about  _this_  for the next few days.” At his exasperated expression, you grin and laugh, "Anyway, I'd like to clean your shirt for you. It's the least I can do. Just tell me your, uh,  _laundry preferences_  and I'll do it exactly how you like it, too."

Then the snob looks at you, green eyes glinting, and he oh so elegantly snorts, "No, you won't."

Your lips twitch. " _Now_  I won't."


	35. Gladiolus: Ruthless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _I just noticed that your requests are now open, and I was wondering if you would take up one more? The thing is- the assassins festival was such an awesome event and it gave away to a dorky side of the boys... so what if Magey went to the festival with the bros and spent her time with Gladio? -gosh he was flirting with every girl in lestallum ahahah-_
> 
> Okay, this is pre-relationship and happens early-ish in the story (based on the ambiguous time that the event takes place in the game). It only covers the first day of the festival ‘cause I could go on and on and on with an entire multi-part ficlet. Here’s me stopping myself from driving y’all crazy. This is just a simple little ficlet. Also, I saw “gosh he was flirting with every girl in lestallum" and then obv had to play off of that a little bit. So…
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, AU, Jealousy, OOC Galore, Two Flirts, Petty Shields and Petty Mages, Intense Tense Flippage, Feat. Noct as “Wingman” for a Hot Second, Bad Writing, Taking Creative Liberties with the Event tbh

**Ruthless**

When he hears the news and sees the date, Noct’s excitement shoots through the roof. And with Prompto playing professional hype man, the two young men are basically dancing around the caravan. It’s here! It’s  _finally_ here! And it’s just a short drive away from the caravan you’re all currently staying in! Lestallum, here you come.

Iggy and Gladiolus are informed of the raven-haired royal’s wishes and are game for a much needed reprieve from monster hunting and imperial sabotage. Though, of course, certain precautions  _will_ be taken. You remain blissfully unaware of what they’re all up to, so absorbed in your own affairs and trying to figure out what sort of spells you should practice.

You drive out to the city, following behind the Regalia, consumed by your own thoughts.

Though Noctis hardly needs your permission to go to a festival based on one of his favorite games, he’d  _like_ for you to actually hang out with everyone rather than shut yourself up in the Leville with only a book for company. He’d like for some- Dare he say it?-  _bonding time_. Plus, he’s sorta doing this more for Gladiolus who has been silently dying for your attention.

The Shield’s fondness for the mage is a strange thing. There’s flirtation but you remain rather taciturn by nature, only whipping out that silver tongue to get the group discounts at stores or better rewards for quests. But anyway, lately you’ve been absorbed in your research, not having much time to spend entertaining Gladio’s flirtations, and Gladio is too conscientious to disturb you.

Hence Noctis’ current position of doing the disturbing for his pal. Not like Gladiolus Amicitia  _needs_ anyone to play wingman for him. But… that’s not gonna stop Noct from helping his buddy. The second you all park your vehicles, Noctis is hopping out of the Regalia and headed to you.

Wicked eyes alight on the prince. Excitement buzzes off of Noct and you aren’t exactly sure why. “So,” you drawl, pulling off your helmet and pocketing your keys. “Mind telling me what we’re doing in Lestallum?”

Noct looks around at all of the intricate banners and posters behind you with “Assassin’s Festival” emblazoned on them. “We’re here for the Assassin’s Festival,” Noct states the obvious.

You remain nonplussed. “Assassin’s Festival? Never heard of it.”

Steely blue eyes blink slowly at you. “Not to be rude but you haven’t heard of a lot of things, (y/n).”

Finally, you notice the decoration about the city. Huh. When did that appear? Maybe it’s not a good sign that you get so absorbed in your own head, even when driving your moped? You blink slowly right back at Noct. “Maybe so. But do we really have the time? You’ve already signed us up for like thirty hunts.”

“It’s  _one_ hunt and it’s at night.” Noct shrugs, so blasé and cool. “We’ve got the time.”

Still a bit skeptical, you squint at the lanterns strewn about the parking lot. They glow in the evening’s darkness. “Will it be fun?”

“Ye-” Then the prince thinks about how  _you_ define fun. Books, manuscripts, and coffee bitter enough to kill the undead. Yeah. That doesn’t exactly align with his views. “I can’t guarantee that, but you like Lestallum. Worse comes to worse, you’ll have your pick of street food.”

“Sold.”

Your brunet pal snorts. “Kinda too late to get sold on it. We’re already here.”

“Still. I could leave if I wanted.”

“Will you?” Noct raises an eyebrow, genuinely wondering if you’ll go riding off into the distance as you’re wont to do. He begins walking, following after where the others already hustled to the main event. You follow by his side, mindful of the street even though it’s been closed off to traffic.

“ _No_. ‘Cause I’m sold.”

“Tch.” Those steely blue eyes roll at you. “No need to act like a-“

The sight of a ball cap and blonde hair in a sea of hood-wearing weirdos makes you blurt, “Cindy!” Not one to abide a tongue-lashing, you’re eager to interrupt your royal charge to address your favorite mechanic. Like lightning, you’re in front of her. “I didn’t know you’d be here! If I did, I’d have come sooner.”

The other guys already found their way to the mechanic long before you and Noct arrived on the scene. They were chatting quite amiably with Cindy and Holly about the festival before you jumped at the opportunity to address the blonde and avoid reprimand. As a consequence, you now have the undivided attention of three people in this scenario:

Cindy, who finds you infinitely charming and funny, and is genuinely happy to see you. Prompto, who already knows about your flirty nature and that it’s benign but is  _still_ just slightly annoyed that your flirtation is directed at the object of his affection. And Gladiolus, who turns into a statue the second you hop in front of the blonde like an excited puppy at the sight of her.

Amber eyes are unblinking, strong jaw is clenched, and you’re totally unaware of your mistake.

The blonde grins at your enthusiastic greeting. She instinctively tugs on the brim of her cap. “Uh-huh. I was wonderin’ if I might see you here. Though…” the mechanic trails off, eyeing you up and down, “y’know, my friend Holly here is rentin’ out costumes for the festival. Why don’t y’all get dressed up for the occasion?”

The next thing that happens nearly blows out your eardrums. Prompto screeches in excitement, begging Noct to let you all get dressed up. You’re a bit wary, not all that enthused about donning borrowed clothes  _even if_ Iggy gently coaxes that it’s the most reasonable thing to do, given the bounty on Noct’s head. For Noct’s sake… you’ll do this. But you won’t like it.

And you don’t. Because the second Holly hands you the costume and directs you to a nearby changing booth with a long line, you can just  _feel_ from the weight of the fabric that it’s not enough for your liking. It’s why you keep your undershirt on. Considering it’s a tank top, it’s  _kind of_ in keeping with the costume’s aesthetic.

But your arms remain mostly bare and you’re suddenly very much aware of how thin your undershirt is considering a large part of your torso is exposed. Even though you’re still wearing a lot of clothing, you feel naked. What doesn’t make this situation any better is how Gladiolus stares at you the second you emerge from the booth.

In his defense, Gladiolus has never seen much of your skin. Is that strange to say? You’re always so alert that no one has ever walked in on you while you were changing aside from maybe Iggy… Not that Gladio has  _tried_ to walk in on you! The point is, you look different without your usual garb. It’s a good different.

But right now? For you, this really isn’t your shining moment. After years of a baggy sweater being a staple article of clothing for you, you’re feeling rather exposed in this getup. The guys look great, sure. But you? Gladiolus’ palpable stare makes you sigh, “This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever worn. I don’t appreciate the breeze, either.”

“Agreed,” Ignis murmurs, brow furrowed. “However, a disguise is necessary.”

Prom crows at you two spoilsports, “C’mon! We look so cool!”

“Yeah,” Cindy gives your shoulder a friendly bump after appraising you and recognizing your discomfort, “you’re showin’ me another side of you entirely, (y/n). You’re makin’ me feel a little faint.”

Is your neck on fire? It feels like it’s on fire. Eyes are wide and fixed on Cindy. “Yeah, right,” you snort, though you’re grinning now because the mechanic always puts you in a good mood. It’s why you seek her out at Hammerhead. Too bad that good mood isn’t resilient. Because Gladiolus knowingly and deliberately puts a pin in it.

“Well, you guys should go on and enjoy the festival,” Gladio drawls, addressing you and the guys. Amber eyes turn toward Holly and Cindy. “I’ve gotta catch up with the ladies.”

It’s pettiness in the extreme. The second you practically threw yourself at Cindy after going days with barely glancing at the Shield, Gladio felt like you punched him in the face. Now, he’s going to flirt with her, too, as if to undo your nonexistent advances. Well, not necessarily “flirt,” but he’ll be  _charming_ , dammit. He’ll be brooding internally but he’ll be a charmer!

Behind you, Noct smacks his forehead so hard he nearly puts his hand through it. So much for playing the part of the damn wingman if the Shield is going to be so committed to self-sabotage. But that’s Gladiolus and his temper, despite being a mature guy. Beside Noct, Prompto shoots Gladio an irritated look for flirting with Cindy.

You survey Gladio in his natural, charming habitat from hooded eyes. Feeling mildly annoyed, you put your hands on your hips and turn to address Noct, “Well, I’m gonna dip.” That gets the Shield to turn off the charm and focus his attention on you.

“Huh?” The prince blinks, startled.

You’re blatantly ignoring Gladio’s continued stare now. “I’m going to get some food in me and then I’ll…” you look around; look everywhere  _but_  in Gladio’s direction, “probably get some shopping out of the way. Birthday gifts and all that. Might send something back home to Drusa. She loves this kitschy crap.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you.” Ignis smiles, subtly needling Gladiolus for flirting with Cindy in order to get on your nerves. Because that was so  _obviously_  his intention. Sometimes, Iggy wonders if you and Gladio will always regress to high school antics with each other. He’s always found it rather bizarre ever since he caught on to it. You two have a deep, emotional bond and yet do stuff like  _this_.

Already headed off, you wave at everyone over your shoulder without casting a single glance back. “Uh-huh. Later.”

Are you brooding? Maybe. But you distract yourself with the city sights. Lestallum looks like a different city and  _e_ _veryone_  is dressed up. When you mosey on over to a food stall and ask the proprietor if you have to kill anyone to get a soda, he merely stares at you, not a fan of your macabre humor. With a sigh, you pay for your drink  _in gil_  and  _not_  blood and continue to walk around.

“Guess they’re not  _that_  committed to the assassin schtick,” you mumble to yourself, straw in your mouth.

In the heart of the festival, knee-deep in festival games and medallions, a certain tall brunet bodyguard sets some high scores in the hopes of winning a present for his favorite mage. The Shield feels like a complete tool. In hindsight, you didn’t even flirt with Cindy and what right does  _he_  have to get irritated if you did?

Although it could be argued that you and Gladiolus seem to thrive off of getting under each other’s skin, he knows he crossed a line with you now. Even if you’ve yet to confess to having any romantic feelings for him, the brunet doesn’t want to alienate you by acting like  _he_  doesn’t have any. This taunting and teasing is a fine line, indeed.

Determined, the Shield furrows his brow and single-handedly ruins any kid’s dreams of setting a high score on literally any of the games at this damn festival.

And you play the role of medallion goblin. Seriously, you walk around, drinking your soda and casually picking up medallions that people carelessly dropped during their festival activities. By the end of the night, your pockets are heavy with thirty medallions. You’ll pass them on to Noct when you meet up at the Leville tonight.

It’s when you’ve just purchased yourself a donut and are stuck licking copious amounts of raspberry jelly off of your fingers (listen,  _no one_  told you it was a filled donut and it certainly wasn’t advertised as one), that something soft lands on your head. Looking up, you find yourself staring at a chocobo plush toy’s butt.

“Huh?” You step forward and turn around in surprise, holding the toy in place on your head with your free hand for a moment before fumbling to put it under your arm. It’s a miracle you don’t smear raspberry jelly all over the thing. Confused, you quirk a brow at the Plush Toy Fairy. “What’s this, Gladiolus?”

“I won it, Magey.” Honestly? He looks so damn proud in his dorky cosplay getup with its nipple-window that you swear he could’ve won a bottle cap and you’d  _still_  shoot him a cheesy grin.

Still confused, you wonder, “Then why did you put it on my head?”

The Shield shrugs. “It reminded me of you.”

A few people bustle by you two on the street. A tired dad with a screaming toddler on his shoulders bumps into you with a mumbled apology and you’re forced to move closer to the Shield in order to give the steady stream of people room to pass. Gladio instinctively rests his hand on your shoulder. You snort at your statuesque companion. “In what way does this thing remind you of me?”

With a teasing grin, Gladio pinches your cheek, eagerly taking advantage of your close proximity. “‘Cause you’re both so damn cute.”

“Oh, shut up,” you phlegmatically scold. With hot cheeks (and one slightly throbbing one), you uncomfortably hand the toy back. It almost falls to the ground, Gladio is so reluctant to take it back. He holds it under one muscular arm, a disappointed frown on his face. “Anyway, I’m sure Iris will appreciate it.”

One thick dark eyebrow rises. “You tellin’ me you don’t like it?”

“Well,  _no_. That’s not what I’m saying. Are you saying it’s mine?” When he raises his other eyebrow at you, you flush. Gosh, does he  _have_  to look at you like he thinks you’re a fool? But, honestly, it  _does_  take you a while to come to the right conclusion. When you do, you blink. “You’re giving this to me? Why?”

The Shield clears his throat and looks over your head at nothing in particular. If you ask, he’ll say he’s looking at a food stall. “Didn’t win it for myself. Like I said, I won it ‘cause it reminded me of you.” It’s an apology and a hidden confession all wrapped up in one chubby-cheeked package. That package is gently returned to you.

Like the chocobo plush is made of glass, you carefully hold it in both arms, mindful to keep the jelly donut away from it. “You didn’t say that,” you point out quite stubbornly, unable to make eye contact. “You said you won it and then you said you put it on my head ‘cause it reminded you of me.”

Amber eyes roll at you. Why does he find you so endearing? It’s all the Shield can do to refrain from mussing your hair. “You’re somethin’ else. You know that? Semantics, Magey. Semantics.”

“Yeah, well… Thank you.” You stare awkwardly at the ground. The silence between you two drags out. Someone drops their ice cream and swears in the distance. Should you confront Gladio about that business with Cindy and Holly? Would that be too suspicious to bring up? You decide that it  _would_  be rather odd and instead murmur, “Um… I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

“Wait.” Gladiolus catches your elbow just as you turn away. When those wicked eyes of yours land on where his hand touches your bare skin, the brunet releases you, cheeks pink. He internally scolds himself that he touched your damn  _elbow_  and nothing more. “You wanna hang out? It feels like we haven’t been able to hang out, just you and me, in a while.”

This request takes you by surprise. Judging by how catty he was being earlier, you thought Gladiolus would be spending his time at the festival by flirting with everyone he came across. Ooh… That’s quite the bitter thought. You hadn’t realized how much his flirtation bothered you. It makes you look away as if Gladio can read your mind if he looks into your eyes.

“Fine.” Some lame attempt at a causal shrug is pulled. “You want the rest of my donut?”

A smirk quirks Gladiolus’ lips at the sight of a sticky red substance smeared on your knuckles from when the donut squirted its filling on you. That’s how he found you, after all: He followed the sound of your startled yelp and cursing of filled pastries. “Is that raspberry filling all over your magical little fingers?”

“Yeah?”

“Yep.” Without further ado, Gladiolus takes the donut off your hands and pops it in his mouth. “Hm. Pretty good. Wanna play some games?” He doesn’t tell you not to get your hopes up on getting a high score. You’re competitive as hell so he knows you’ll be out all night trying to wipe his scores off the board if you know he set them.

Too bad the second he says “games” you’re immediately shoved headfirst into competitive mode. It doesn’t take very long for you to discover that some punk went and set impossibly high scores on everything. Who the hell has the time for that? Your mood is as soured by this revelation as every other child’s.

And Gladiolus? He can’t keep the secret to himself for much longer. When you step away from the shooting gallery, your score nowhere near placing on the leaderboard, the Shield snorts. Eyes narrow and you side-eye him. He’s been awfully quiet as you’ve made your way through the attractions. What’s his deal?

You ask just that: “What’s so funny?”

Gladiolus’ expression is one of pure self-indulgence. He’s loved every second of watching you puff your cheeks out when your scores come just shy of beating his. He’s savored your trash-talking the “punk with too much time on their hands” that ruined the fun for everyone. Without answering your question, the Shield orders, “Move aside, Magey, and let me show you how the pros do it.”

And, boy, does he sure show you. Targets that are painted to resemble monsters are nailed with colorful balls. Gladiolus’ aim is pretty decent and he doesn’t overheat the turret (which you accidentally did in your frustration the fifth time around). You’re enthralled, as are the little kids who try to get their parents to stop and watch.

“Shoot ‘em! You’ve got this, Gladio!” You cheer, squeezing the chocobo to your chest.

Amber eyes flash but don’t stray from the targets. “With you as my cheerleader, I’ve already won.”

“Oh my gosh, that was so lame,” you mumble, face on fire.

The longer the game continues, the more your suspicion grows, however. Gladiolus is really good at this… Like, really,  _really_  good at this. Eyes narrow to slits as you continue to watch the Shield in silence. When the timer runs out, Gladiolus has set a new record and gets ten medallions for his efforts. He also blows his cover.

“It was  _you_!”

The way you say it? So dramatic and with an accusatory finger point? For a second, the Shield thinks he’s in the middle of a daytime soap opera. “Yeah,” the brunet easily confesses, pocketing his medallions, “it was me.”

“Six! Did you have to destroy  _every_  game?” You whine, slouching moodily.

Broad shoulders shrug up and down as you two walk down the path headed to the Leville. “Had to grind for medallions, Magey. I really wanted that toy.”

Said toy is squeezed closer to your chest in response. Well, it  _is_  a cute toy… Still, you’re mildly irritated that Gladiolus is the one who bested you. He  _would_  be the ruthless type to dominate the leaderboards of  _lighthearted festival games_ , wouldn’t he? Before you two can make much progress toward the hotel, a piercing shriek stops you in your tracks.

On high-alert, the two of you look around the street until you have the mind to look up. A young man stands stock-still on a pipe that connects two rooftops. He’s roughly two or three floors up. “What in the world is that guy doing?” You gasp, looking around and wondering why nobody is freaking out. A few people glance up at the poor guy but go back to their business. Talk about bystander effect.

Your faith in humanity is slightly restored when Gladiolus chuckles, “Relax, Magey. It’s an attraction. Y’know, the whole ‘assassin’ thing? Besides, he’s safe. They’ve got people ready if anyone falls. It’s not nearly as dangerous as that leap thing or whatever they call it.”

A glance around the street confirms just that; paramedics are on standby and there are people with tarps, though you highly doubt they’d be able to catch someone fast enough. What’s this called? Tightrope walking? Well, in this case it’s more “funambulism” considering it’s a pipe and not a rope. You’d seen this in movies before and always thought it was a strange thing for people to do.

_But_  if it’ll get you enough medallions to rival Gladio’s latest haul, you’re down. Er… rather,  _up_? You’re up? Eyes linger on the pipe that’s decorated with lanterns. This? You can totally do this. You haughtily inform Gladiolus that you’re going to cross the pipe and you’re shoving the chocobo plush into his arms before he can protest.

The Shield watches with a grin as you duck into an alley after getting directions from a fellow festival-goer. He trusts that you’re skilled enough to cross a pipe of decent width. And if you can’t? Well, he’s caught you about a million times before and he’ll catch you again should you fall. The chocobo is held under his arm as he waits.

You don’t give yourself any time to second-guess this decision, you’re so damn competitive. Once on the roof, you get in the queue which consists of only three brave souls. Well… “brave.” One person drops out at the last minute and you’re happy to take their place since the line is slow moving. This pace  _should_  give you time to rethink doing this… But you don’t.

Fingers pluck at your undershirt, Lestallum’s humidity making the fabric stick to you with sweat. Maybe you should’ve forgone the shirt? Gladiolus  _certainly_  would’ve enjoyed the view. After a moment, you start to bounce on your heels, antsy and occasionally looking up at the starry night sky. It takes an age for it to be your turn and you’ve heard the safety spiel twice already.

It only takes so long for you to make it to the front of the line because everyone takes this challenge at a lethargic, safe pace. You’ve no such intentions. “How many medallions will you give me if I can do this in under ten seconds?” You brusquely ask the worker right as he concludes his little speech that reassures you that you  _shouldn’t_  come to harm if you were to fall.

“Uh…” He looks around, as if hoping his boss will materialize to handle such an unruly festival-goer for him. “I-I wouldn’t recommend-”

“Whatever you give people for completing it, double it for me if I can do it in under ten seconds.”

Before the worker can respond and tell you that the key to this little attraction is  _not_  to rush it and that you aren’t actually an assassin like in the game, you step out onto the pipe. The second you do so, you’re met with raucous applause that immediately cuts off. The Shield kicks himself, telling himself not to distract you.

To give you credit, your balance is almost on par with Iggy’s- the two of you being rather nimble. Years of walking on egg shells will do that. Cato would be proud, though. The young mage he beat with a training sword is so light on their feet as a result of his unrelenting drills. A warm breeze causes your costume to billow elegantly in the wind. Gladiolus is in awe.

That dramatic look of yours is severely undermined by how casually you waltz across the pipe to the other rooftop. You look as though you’re strolling through a park and  _not_  walking on a pipe suspended in the air. You don’t draw it out or do anything fancy- you just get across. The trick is not looking down. You mastered the “art” of tunnel-vision ages ago.

Fifteen medallions are given to you and you wonder if this attraction even hands them out. ‘Cause you get the sneaking suspicion that the worker took them from his own stash when you casually walked back to him across the pipe. He’d stared at you, mouth agape. Still, you’re preening over the fact that you got more medallions than Gladio and are quick to rub it in his face when you get back down.

The Shield grins. “Good job, Circus Mage.”

“Oh my  _gods_!” You groan.

A wide grin crosses his face at how you throw your head back to whine at his horrible new nickname for you. The fluffy chocobo plush is handed back to you and the Shield intentionally puts his hands over yours when you go to grab it. Amber eyes peer into yours. “I had fun. Wouldn’t have wanted to spend my evening any other way.”

The sincerity in his voice has heat creeping up your neck. Callused fingers brush against the backs of your hands, the plush toy held between you two. A lot is conveyed through that simple touch. Even more is conveyed through his confession. You give Gladiolus a soft smile and put one of your hands over his. “Yeah, me too.”


	36. 13. Disarm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slow chapter that focuses on all the things y’all probably don’t care about (sorry!). But here we have more set-up and you start to look like the math lady meme.
> 
> Anyway, I have to get all of these chapters posted within two weeks because my schedule is gonna be **so packed** soon. I mean, damn.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, Ardyn Mention, Intense Tense Flippage, You Wear Bravado Well, Mages Making Bad Decisions, Bad Writing, Prompto is Too Damn Trusting, Noct is Lucky He’s of the Caelum Line When He Digs in Your Bag, Everyone Needs a Vacation, AU, Damn

** 13\. Disarm  **

In one fell swoop, the walls come crashing down, leaving you to stand in the middle of a pile of rubble. Those hellfire eyes bore into you, pinning you to the spot. Body runs cold and hot at once; panic and dread; confusion and fear. Fight-or-flight is defunct. All you can do is stay rooted to the spot on your knees... prone. An old memory stirs to life. An echo of a pained, wretched scream and the tearing of skin. Bile touches the back of your throat. Offal and the smell of metallic fear. 

Nighttime noises seem amplified. Tears prick the corners of your eyes and you finally move- but it’s not the move you intended to make. You want to run. But all you do is fall back and hastily push yourself away from the creature that stands at the tree line. Heels dig into soft earth, disturbing pine needles. Too soon, your back connects with a tree trunk. You can’t put enough space between yourself and the daemon. Lacking any significant soft tissue on its face, the creature can’t properly emote. A stub of an upper lip attempts to curl, attempts to offer you what it can barely recall a reassuring smile to look like. 

You’re shaking. Eyes are wide and tears flow freely. Yellow eyes flicker across your face, trying to make sense of your reaction. Fear. Yes, that’s fear. Like this, you’re so small; that child who accepted food easily, that child who was frail and sick. A corrupted mind struggles to formulate a compassionate response. Respect boundaries or the screaming comes. A cadaverous body wavers, all sinew and charred flesh shrouded in the tatters of a robe, to stay in line with the trees. Teeth part. “ _I-I..._ ” Tongue curls but the sounds aren’t right. Frustration. “ _Io..._ ” 

It’s easier to speak when you’re asleep. Lips aren’t necessary for those talks but it knows you won’t let it get close enough to use you as its mouthpiece- especially when you’re awake and trembling like this. You won’t let it inside when you’re looking at it like this, when your fingers dig into the dirt like this. That expression? The one you’re directing at it? That hurts. An old, tired pain. It yearns for the days where you had warmth in your gaze. But those days are long gone. 

“Why are you here?” Eyes snap down to your mouth; watch attentively as lips move. Your voice rings through the quiet night- the daemon’s favorite sound. Good, you’re talking and not crying or screaming. Relief is what the daemon feels. It savors the sensation a moment too long because the  silence ends up making you uneasy. “Answer me!” Chest heaves. Anger gives you strength to surmount fear. You’re up on your feet with flames engulfing your hands. One wrong move and you’ll destroy the creature. You know you can do it now. You have nothing to fear. With venom on your tongue you spit, “Haven’t you taken enough from me?” 

Though it knows it should be worried, it’s overcome by what it feels like to be talked to again. It’s been so long... Human interaction... It’s been _too long_... Something in its chest twists. So, so painful. Yellow eyes flicker down to that hand it used to hold. When once it was open, now it’s fisted and burning. Clearly, you still refuse to remember it. All the things that you recall are tainted. The necromancy and the... Well, it certainly was unfortunate that it ate someone in front of you. However, at the time, that seemed the best option. Either the man with the pleasant face had to die or you would. 

Even now, it’s almost like it can still smell the poison on your soft breath. There’s danger still- immediate and horrible. The traitor. The traitor is coming for you and it’s the daemon’s fault. If it hadn’t lost your trust it never would have had to rely on the traitor to begin with. It never would have bartered you off... A skeletal hand comes up to deftly whisk away the fireball you hurl at it. The orange flames disappear in a wisp of smoke and a barely audible fizzle. You don’t miss the way it flinches when the flames get close, though. Eyes linger on that burned and warped flesh. A strange pang of pity shoots through your gut. 

Toning down the hostility, the anxiety, you ask again, “Why are you here? After all this time... Why have you come back?” The anxiety isn’t totally gone. When your shoulder blades begin to ache, you realize you’ve been pressing urgently into the tree behind you. If anyone else were here, you know they’d think you insane. _Talking_ to a _daemon_? But they don’t know what you know. They weren’t there in that room; with you hunched over a dead toad and a daemon hunched over you; fingertips pressed to the toad’s lifeless form and the daemon’s fingers clawing at your back and tugging at your spine. That voice, barely a whisper. That guiding tone; so authoritative and almost parental. Your personal daemon tutor at seven years of age. Tuition was only nine years of your life. 

“ _A cheat and a charmer,_ ” you think so bitterly you can almost taste the acrid thought on your tongue, “ _but I’m not a naïve child anymore._ ” 

Just like that, you work yourself back up into a state of agitation. The flames surrounding your hands flare, making shadows jump across the clearing. Even with this internal conflict, your expression remains stony. Tears have long gone. A perfect mask betrayed only by the volatility of your magic. The daemon pauses, chooses its words carefully, mindful of its limitations in this form. “ _Danger..._ ” Like a death-rattle, that voice hisses through the night; full of phlegm and spittle. Something tickles your brain like a feather. It’s an odd sensation, like you’re conscious that you’ve forgotten something but still can’t rightly place it. Like seeing someone you know but forgetting their name for a second. 

“Danger from you or someone else?” You ask cautiously. The flames are gone from your hands but you’re still prepared to attack. No flames next time... Maybe ice. For whatever reason, using fire made you feel guilty. How odd. 

Yellow eyes look impatient. “ _Not... I..._ ” 

You narrow your eyes and cluck your tongue. So arrogant for facing off with a daemon. “Right,” you drawl, leaning against the tree in contrived indifference, “because you already got what you wanted from me? Sure you aren’t here to steal more years? I might have a few spares in the storage tail of my moped.” 

A stub of a lip twitches. “ _Not... I..._ ” The words are more forceful, conveying frustration. When  you’re about to comment that you aren’t easily convinced by repetition, the daemon continues, “ _Deal... with thy..._ ” a rattling breath is inhaled, like it’s a struggle to speak and breathe, “ _mother..._ ” 

The universe seems to freeze. Ears ring. This is something you desperately need to work through- sort out. To be rendered immobile, incapacitated, by one word? How can one word hold so much power? Too many tightly woven emotions are all balled-up in it: Mother. The most painful word. “My mother?” Voice cracks on the word. That façade of indifference can no longer be maintained. Tension snaps through your body and you’re gathering yourself up to look formidable- to not look like the small child you feel like. Nocturnal creatures go silent. “Why are _you_ bringing up _my_ mother?” 

A strange sort of melancholy washes over the creature. It sags like the bag of bones that it is. “ _To guard... thee..._ ” When you don’t respond, when you remain nonplussed, the daemon hisses out the only word it can properly enunciate in this form, “ _Deal..._ ” 

“You expect me to believe that _my mother_ made a deal with you? She would never-” 

“ _Child... in danger..._ ” It interrupts hastily at your volatile anger. You were never so angry as a  child... 

“She would _never_.” Head shakes, nostrils flare. Lips pull back over teeth in a snarl. “You would say anything to get me to let you near again. That’s your nature. My mother would never make a deal with a daemon- not with Ifrit’s Messenger.” 

The daemon growls; all blazing yellow eyes and a grimace of teeth. You roll your eyes- far too rancorous to be a meek mageling living in fear of shadows and the things that inhabit them. Being so disaffected, you grab onto that hatred, that bitterness, and run with it. It’s all you allow yourself to feel in this moment. Concentrate long and hard on that virulent emotion until you embody it. Chin raises and you look down your nose at the daemon with a sneer. You confront the boogeyman. 

“Let’s say my mother _was_ taken in by your wiles and she made a deal with you. You say your part was to protect me? Putting aside the fact that you seem to have a funny way of ‘protecting’ considering you snagged nearly a decade from me, what did _she_ have to barter with? What was this alleged deal?” A thin arm raises sluggishly, laboriously, to point a skeletal finger at you. For a moment, the only sound is the hissing and rattling that comes from the daemon’s strained breathing. That finger remains pointing at you in the pale moonlight, unwavering. The superior sneer is frozen on your face. “Bullshit,” you finally snap, chest heaving from the breath you were holding. For a moment you want to cross the clearing and slap the creature’s hand down. “She wouldn’t barter with me. Why would she barter my life away to protect me? It makes no sense. None.” 

“ _Another..._ ” 

Eyes roll into the back of your head even as logic tells you to keep your gaze fixed on the daemon. “Gods, this conversation is infuriating. Can you write? Or are you purposefully being cryptic? Another _what_? Are you telling me _someone else_ was involved in this imaginary exchange?” 

“ _Yes..._ ” 

“Well, thank the Six for _that_ quickly solved mystery. Who?” When the daemon doesn’t respond, looking almost uncomfortable, you growl, “ _Who_? I’m not impersonating the damn owls, here!” The daemon takes a step forward and you almost take one back. Yellow eyes drop down and your  gaze follows to see the black phone lying in the grass. Hand immediately pats your empty pocket. Bare feet that are missing some toes step gingerly before a crooked back stoops, exposing a spinal column. Throat tightens in disgust. But it tightens even more when you hear a soft _snap!_ and the daemon rights itself before extending its fist to you. You know what it took. Eyes flicker from the creature’s hand to its face. That skeletal fist opens to reveal a small plastic charm in the shape of a cactuar in that rotted palm. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Denial seems like the best option right now. It feels like the easier thing to digest. Far easier than your mother knowing about this daemon and having it hammer out the terms of your safety with Ardyn Freakin’ Izunia. But knowing your mother (and a small part of yourself needles you and says you _don’t_ ), this isn’t what she wanted. Most likely, she was duped. Same as you. Ask for one thing and, yes, you get it... but at great cost. Not once did you ever get the impression that your mother liked or even properly _knew_ Ardyn. But what would you know? Up until this point, you thought you and Ardyn were the only people who knew about the daemon. 

Yellow eyes watch you anxiously. Denial seems unattainable right now, as well. Because all of the little pieces fall into place right before your eyes. Ardyn’s sudden appearance when you were a child and the insulating role he played. On the drive to the Disc of Cauthess, he’d said he stopped visiting because the _daemon_ told him he frightened you- made you uneasy. Your daemonic _protector_. Which makes Ardyn... “So, this is the trade-off? Servitude for protection that I never asked for?” Hand rubs over your face, suddenly so tired. A laugh escapes you. “What the hell were you two thinking? Or, let me guess, my mother didn’t know what sort of ass-backwards deal you were going to strike with a ‘third party’?” 

A regretful expression. So strange how emotive the thing can be without proper facial features. The power of projection. “ _Yes..._ ” The daemon groans. 

Ardyn had been so sure that you would go work for the Empire- well, work for _him_. All the while, you thought he was banking on your past friendship to win you over to his side. However, the conversations you two shared hinted at something more depraved; like your joining wouldn’t exactly be voluntary. Shit, you thought he was just going to threaten you and your friends until you finally broke. Little did you know he had a better ace in the hole. Daemonic contracts are a bitch. But contracts are funny things. They seem so binding and yet they can be broken. Verbiage may be odious or even incontestable, and yet one party may simply choose not to follow through. _However_... Ardyn already made it clear to you the consequences of your disobedience. 

And you’re no help to Noctis if you’re dead. But are you still helpful if he thinks you’re a traitor? Can you still be helpful if he doesn’t want anything to do with you? 

“You couldn’t have just hired a mercenary and bartered with money? You had to get me in Ardyn’s sights?” You sigh, “But I _suppose_ he would’ve wanted me dead, anyway, considering he has it out for Noctis. Because it really seems like a personal grudge and not like political maneuver-” You pause. The daemon seems attentive, sure, but why the hell are you throwing your theories at it? You’re getting too familiar. Talking like you’re old friends. 

“ _The enemy of my enemy and all that_ ,” you think blandly. “ _Am I_ really _going to go from binding daemons to throwing in with one who claims to have made a deal with my mother?_ ” 

Maybe you’re overly confident? Maybe all of that binding magic has gone to your head? Because although your heart still pumps like you’ve been running a marathon, you find solace in the way your fingertips pulse and throb- a banishing spell ready and waiting. Seeming to sense your thoughts, the daemon steps back into the darkness of the tress until all you can see are its yellow eyes. Again, guilt stabs you in the gut. What the hell is that about? 

Expression stoic, you drawl, “If you try anything, I won’t hesitate to banish you. Understand?”  When the daemon doesn’t respond, you reach behind you for your staff and your stomach flips when you realize it isn’t there. Right... It’s not like you sleep with the damn thing on. 

Stars glimmer up above, providing you with limited light. It’s enough for the daemon to see the unease on your face, however. Teeth part once more, saliva dripping down unimpeded, “ _Under_... _stand..._ ” 

And for the second time in your life you’ve come to an understanding with a daemon. It’s kind of funny that all of your binding magic has completely desensitized you to the absurdity of the situation. Here you are in shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of the forest, threatening to banish what Aela called Ifrit’s Messenger. Maybe you’re going mad. Maybe you’re just desperate. Because, as it stands, you have three parties that are looking to you for _something_. Your friends seek your counsel, Ardyn seeks your... what? Your servitude? Your power? And the daemon? Six, take the damn wheel. The daemon is fulfilling its end of some deal that you aren’t even sure happened. 

Either way, the kicker here is that you fear a godsdamned _daemon_ less than Ardyn. ‘Cause one wrong move and you can simply banish a daemon. Ardyn Izunia, on the other hand? He’ll probably feed you your own beating heart and reprimand you for making a mess of it. He’s dangerous in a subtle way. In an unpredictable way. And powerful. Oh, he must be. How else does someone get where he is? How else does someone become the person a _higher daemon_ thinks of as a viable protector? Things were so much simpler when you went to sleep. The world was so different. Ardyn’s presence only signaled pressure to defect and childhood nostalgia. The daemon was a distant memory rather than something very real and standing right in front of you. Your mother was still the moral mage. 

“ _She still is_ ,” you correct yourself. 

“So, you’re here to protect me, hm?” When the daemon affirms this, you query, “And how do you expect to do that? I can't have you following me around. Plus, the whole daylight thing is a bit of an impediment to your guarding duties, wouldn’t you say? Or is Ardyn to be my protector? Wasn’t _that_ the contract?” 

Also, the musk of rot and decay that you can smell from across the clearing is staggering. Can’t have _that_ lingering around you. It’s like a broken refrigerator filled with spoiled meat and curdled dairy products. Fear initially kept you from smelling it. Now etiquette keeps you from commenting on it. Gods, what you wouldn’t do for some Febreeze right now. Yellow eyes zero-in on how you no longer breathe through your nose- lips parted almost imperceptibly. An old feeling bubbles up out of retirement: Shame. The next time you see the daemon in this wretched form, it has flowers hidden under its tattered robes to try and mask its smell. How you easily fall into a conversational tone with the daemon is curious. An old habit you didn’t know you’d formed during a forgotten time. 

“ _Skin..._ ” The daemon finally answers what were actually semi-rhetorical questions. You have no intention of having the daemon follow you around no matter its fanciful claims. 

“What?” Eyes narrow and you’re feeling equal parts alarmed and defensive. “For your sake, you’d better not be asking for my damn skin. Go find your own.” Probably not a good suggestion, to be honest. The last thing you need is to be responsible for this daemon going and ripping someone’s skin off. 

“ _Skin... change..._ ” 

“Uh... Come again?” All you do is blink. Just once. You only do it because you practically haven’t blinked since this conversation started. It’s a split-second and the daemon is gone and replaced by a toad. You stare for a million years. Honestly, it really begs the question: Has this  damn daemon been following you around as a toad or another animal all this time? It makes you recall all of the far too friendly wild animals you came across as a child. The toad takes two tentative hops toward you. 

Six, this is evil. This is so manipulative and sneaky. Because the toad is too damn cute. You damn yourself for being so easily disarmed by adorable animals. You’ll be out of luck if it can turn into a cat, or a dog, any sort of bird, really... _any_ animal, actually. Leave it to you to have an easily preyed upon weakness. From all things furry, fuzzy, feathery, scaly, and slimy... you love ‘em. Sucking down a breath (and more than a little apprehension), you cross the clearing and crouch down in front of the toad. 

Brown eyes stare at you. You scowl before scooping it up along with your phone. “FYI, I don’t find the humor in this form. If this is your idea of a joke, it leaves a lot to be desired.” Can toads smile? You _swear_ it smiles, the little shit. 

“ _What an asshole daemon,_ ” you think flatly. 

“Also,” you’re feeling very indignant as you lift the toad to stare it down, “I don’t see how you’re going to protect me like this. Maybe if Ardyn attacks me with an army of flies... _No wonder_ you needed to rely on him to get the job done if-” you’re cut off by a tongue smacking against the corner of your mouth. You gag. Just your luck to have a rational (or semi-rational) daemon that thinks it’s your personal guardian _and_ is a total sass master. You’ll soon find that it prefers forms that get the most affection out of you and the most squeamish reactions out of a certain jumpy blond. All the while, it hisses in your ear, safe from the light in an animal’s skin. 

The walk back to camp is long. This is due to the fact that your feet are bare and you’re about a mile away from the campground ("Instinct tells me not to sass a daemon, but you're a bit of a bitch for making me walk a mile for a damn meeting."). By the time you get back, you have a text from Iggy and Prompto is waiting anxiously by your chair. When he spots you, his eyes light up, happy that you’ll be having breakfast with everyone. The blond jogs up to meet you as you step into camp. “Hey! Where’ve you be- Frog. Why do you have a frog?” Pale eyebrows furrow as he cocks his head and looks at the fat toad that you hold carefully in your hands. Warm brown eyes stare fixedly at him. Prom starts to feel a little squirmy. 

“It’s a toad, Prompto. Six, do I need to give you a biology lesson?” You sigh, mercifully putting the toad down on your chair before ducking into the tent before anyone can realize your feet are cut up from your nighttime jaunt in the woods. Clothes are changed hastily and you reemerge like nothing. A few days pass with nothing going terribly awry. It takes Noct a while to get accustomed to his hand bumping against the toad each time he digs in your bag to try and steal snacks. It takes a whole day before the daemon begins to talk to you in its animal form. And, boy, is it the strangest thing. 

For starters, it doesn’t speak in that strange, archaic way anymore. It uses slang. Particularly the slang that you’re fond of. It picks up your speech patterns; the nuances in the language that you utilize. And it sounds a little familiar but also a little _off_. But the biggest thing: No one else can hear it. You find this out when it makes a hilarious joke at Prompto’s expense (observational humor is one of your favorites) and you’re the only one laughing like a weirdo, practically howling. “Uh... I just remembered a really funny joke,” you lie awkwardly under the collective stare of your friends. 

For someone who is so adept at spying ulterior motives, you’re blind to the deception that is currently taking place right under your nose. How strange, since you started this unconventional companionship so suspicious. Though you don’t trust the beast, you aren’t as vigilant as you should be. It could be because you’re so focused on who you deem to be the biggest threat: Ardyn Izunia. It could be because you’re perhaps a bit too cocky, telling yourself that you can banish the  daemon in an instant if it tries anything. And it _hasn’t_ tried anything. Hasn’t come out of those animal skins even once. 

Except... it _is_ trying something. You’re not aware of it because the inner machinations of the thing’s mind are so outside the realm of your understanding. There’s no rationality there to puzzle out. But you should have paid more heed to Aela’s claim of this creature being Ifrit’s Messenger. To your credit, however, that fact is becoming more salient. Particularly now as you watch the puzzling polymorph slither through the eye-socket of a voretooth skull. Black tongue flickers in and out as the creature in the form of a snake tells you that necromancy can be performed _any_ time after death, so long as you pay the price or have _someone else_ pay for you. 

You frown before reaching down and your reptilian comrade languidly makes its way out of the skull and up your arm to rest about your shoulders. “I see you have a taste for the macabre. And why are you telling me this? I already know. _You_ taught me that lesson,” you hiss and get a tail flicked at your nose. It’s hinting at something but you aren’t picking up what it’s putting down. Frustration simmers beneath that stolen skin. Why can’t you understand what it wants you to do? You know how to perform necromancy- it _knows_ you know how! And you’ve been telling it how you want to _save_ people... 

It can’t understand why you’ve sworn off necromancy but picked up binding as if it can fulfill your desires (though the daemon _was_ certainly impressed when you turned a banishment into a bind midway through). It has so many stolen years ready and waiting for your use. _Spire_ years. It thinks you might like that... It thinks you might like a lot of things that you'll actually find to be positively morally repugnant.

“Wh-What are you doing?!” 

That thin, muscular body tightens around your neck in shock and you grunt before shooting Prompto an irritated look. “What am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing? Don’t scream so early.” You’ve just entered camp early in the morning and, as usual, Prompto is waiting for you. He lives for your early morning chats. It’s pretty much the only reason he wakes up so early. That and to help Ignis cook sometimes. He’s the best sous-chef around. Well... the _only_ one considering Noct sleeps in. 

“There’s a snake on you!” 

“Uh... yeah?” Fingers absentmindedly stroke the serpent’s head that rests against your collarbone. “I’m aware of that.” 

“ _Why_ is there a snake on you, (y/n)?” Prompto whines, face all screwed up in a cringe. 

“What’s with all the screaming?” Gladio asks, coming up to you two, drenched in sweat from his morning exercise. Amber eyes alight on the reptile wrapped around your neck. He blinks once. “Oh. Got a snake friend now, Magey?” 

“Actually-” 

From the makeshift kitchen, Ignis calls over his shoulder, “(y/n), you can’t have a toad _and_ a snake. At this rate, your bag will be a vivarium and that simply won’t-” 

“This is my familiar,” you interrupt without thinking. But what are you supposed to say? This snake used to be a toad which used to be a higher daemon? Well, _still is_ a higher daemon? It’s the only way you can explain the creature’s shapeshifting without treading into daemon territory. 

“What?! That’s _so_ cool!” Prompto gasps, all previous apprehension tossed away now that he knows the creature is a part of you. Wait. That _is_ how familiars work, right? “But, uh, how come  you never had it before?” 

“It was the toad,” you point out. “My familiar likes to change forms.” 

“I meant before that,” Prompto murmurs, eyes squinting. Is that how familiars work? 

“It was on vacation,” you joke dryly, listening to the serpent’s appreciative chuckle. 

“(y/n).” 

Eyes roll at Iggy’s reprimand and you lie easily, “It wasn’t in a readily visible form. It was a spirit before it took the shape of a toad and now a snake.” 

And just like that they all know that it’s the daemon that languidly rests about your neck. They’ve all had their own run-in with it by this point. But you’re calling it your familiar? That gives them pause. At night, when you aren’t around, they’ll discuss this development at length. Prompto is convinced that it’s your familiar like you say. Why would you lie? And the toad- er, _the familiar_ seemed really fond of you- _seems_ fond of you. It was a really affectionate toad... Now it’s a really affectionate snake. Anything that likes you can’t be bad, right? But the others aren’t so sure. However, it’s not like there’s a _plethora_ of information about Iovita mages. And like hell will anyone get their hands on your grimoire. This may very well be your familiar that _also happens to be a daemon_. The one thing they _are_ sure of is that you’ll never tell them the truth. 

The creature’s playfulness disarms Prompto. Its deference has Noctis convinced that it isn’t malicious. Its protectiveness assuages at least some of Ignis’ and Gladiolus’ uncertainty. They all grow accustomed to you speaking to the creature, asking for opinions and advice that only you can hear. But there are peculiarities that don’t quite keep them all charmed. While you may seem beguiled by the beast, Iggy and Gladio are perturbed by its diet of raw meat and blood no matter its form. As you pat it on the head, Prompto wonders if you know that it sometimes steals off into the night when you're asleep. And Noctis wonders if you know that when it talks he can sometimes hear it, too. And he listens as it speaks with your voice. 


	37. Noctis: Thoughtless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally requested on tumblr. The request reads: _The upcoming angst I can feel coming in Noct's route is killing me already. Can we get a fluffy flirty sexual tension ridden ficlet to sooth the pre-pain? I am really enjoying everything you are writing, thank you for sharing it all with us!_
> 
> There’s mild angst in this for how I deal with the engagement. Otherwise, just fluffy sexual tension as requested.
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Mild Angst, Sexual Refs, Mage Magnetism, No Luna Shade, Not on My Watch Dammit, Possible Game Spoilers for the Rock of Ravatogh, Abrupt Ending, Bad Writing, Second Hand Shame Kills

**Thoughtless**

What are you doing?

What’s going on?

You aren’t even sure anymore. Being pulled in multiple directions is tiring, to say the least. Being expected to fulfill your duty to the best of your ability is one thing. But that sense of duty, of _honor_ , has morphed into something you weren’t trained to handle. It’s not as though the magisters expatiated on what to do when you want to romance your royal charge.

Or when those feelings are obviously reciprocated.

Thus comes the inevitable purchase of erotica in the guise of a self-help book.

Listen, you thought it was a self-help book! You  _thought_. Sure, the cover begged to be hidden from Gladiolus’ keen amber eyes. Always so interested when you buy new books, he merely quirked a brow and respected your boundaries when you shouted, “No!” as he opened your shopping bag. But despite the cover-art, the book claimed to help people with their love lives.

Tips and tricks, the glossy cover said. You were expecting guidance on how to better approach Noctis, maybe some information on how to deal with complicated scenarios like _an engagement_ … Instead, you got some lovely pictures and testimonials on how to give “great head” and also learned the meaning of a few words you discovered you’d been using incorrectly.

That would explain a lot of Prompto’s random giggling fits. Apparently, “fisting” can no longer be used in your vernacular to refer to punching someone and you can’t say you’re going to “whack someone off” as a euphemism for murder. Unless, of course, you want Prompto giggling behind your back like a little heathen at your expense.

Despite the absurdity of a lot of its content, the book  _is_  useful. Though the quality of the information is akin to a trashy magazine editorial with cheeky lines bordering on being vulgar, you’ve managed to take apart the advice and apply it haphazardly to your situation with Noctis. That is, a situation where one person isn’t exactly available.

The first question: “Is the relationship serious?”

You sigh. Well, though the engagement technically burst into flames along with Insomnia and the rest of the damn fake treaty, entire nations are counting on the union to pull through. And who doesn’t love a good old-fashioned arranged royal wedding where both parties are under duress? Is your bitterness coming out? It seems like it’s coming out.

Second question: “Is the attraction mutual?”

Well, duh. Situational naïveté may be one of your shortcomings but you aren’t blind to Noct’s feelings for you. It’s the reason why you’ve been rebuffing him at every turn to the point of seeming cold.  _Why else_ would he always talk to you even when he fishes? And he could’ve told you off for touching his thigh… But he didn’t.

And the third and final question: “Could you live with yourself if you broke up the relationship?”

You snap the book shut and shove it back in your bag just as Noctis finishes up in the tomb. Blue eyes cast you a curious glance, watching as you stiffly shrug away from the wall you were leaning against to follow him back out into the sweltering heat. Lips are pressed into a hard, fine line as you mull over that question.

In truth, you wish the answer to that question could be a swift and resolute, “No.” That’s what moral people would say, right? Is it immoral to get into the technicalities before you respond? To point out the lack of a formal engagement made while exercising one’s free will and  _not_  fearing for each other’s safety? 

Gods, you’re irritated.

Blame it on the heat. The Rock of Ravatogh is testing the limits of your commitment to a fashion statement as well as your patience. You’ve nearly bitten Gladio’s head off twice for telling you to take your sweater off only for you to snap back, “It’s a complete look!” while gesturing aggressively to your outfit. But, by the Six, you’re  _swimming_  in sweat.

You’ve all just finished raiding the Tomb of the Fierce to get Noct’s ancestral powers yada, yada, yada… when you remember it: Dirt from the summit. Supposedly, it has some magical properties because of the minerals or somebody was laid to rest there, or  _something_. You can’t fully recall the details since it was a blip in your grimoire. Still worth investigating, though.

But you’re all already making your way back down.

And it’s getting  _late_ …

“I’m  _so_  hungry! And tired!” Prompto whines, forehead slick with sweat. The salamander in his hair scrambles for purchase when the blond throws his head back with a groan. “I can’t wait to get to the caravan and sleep in a  _real_  bed. Oh! And take a shower! I call dibs on the shower! Heh. Sorry, (y/n), but it looks like  _you_  have to stay in your  _sweat_ -er for a bit longer.”

Steps quicken so you can rescue the salamander and place it in your bag. “Okay, first of all: Boo. That was a bad joke that hurt my soul. Secondly: I’m gonna hang back. I need to get back to the summit for some dirt-” at their flat, sweaty expressions, you scoff, “Don’t judge me. Need I remind you all that we killed a behemoth for ramen toppings? You all go ahead. I won’t be long.”

Despite the fact that he looks like a human oil slick, Noct takes a step toward you and insists, “I’ll go with you.” When he sees your reserved expression, he mumbles, “I’m always willing to help you with your research. You know that.”

And it’s true. 

You can’t count the times Noct has pulled the Regalia over on the side of the highway or stopped in the middle of some important task to help you find some exotic plant or some other such nonsense. All in the pursuit of your scholarly,  _magey_ , sometimes totally inconvenient endeavors. He’s far too sweet for his own good.

Head tilts as you survey the prince. Dirt sticks to his sweaty face from that wonderful slide down a cliff you all just took and he looks downright _exhausted_. Rather than refusing his offer, though, you bite your tongue and smile tightly. “Okay. Thanks for your help.” You look to your friends and give them a stern nod. “I’ll take care of him.”

“We know you will, Magey.” Amber eyes glint.

Noct’s little crush is too obvious for the others to ignore. So it’s with the stoniest of faces that you accept Gladio’s teasing response and ignore Prompto’s wiggling eyebrows without spouting off a few choice words. You’ve already proven that though you’re quite the fibber, you’re dependable. Lies and loyalty. How about that? Better to not drag this out any longer, though.

“See you back at the caravan.”

“Make haste, (y/n). If you two aren’t back before sundown, we’ll come looking for you,” Ignis warns.

After giving brief farewells, you and Noct turn around and head back up the mountain. Noct comments on the heat but you’re relatively quiet. You quickly check your phone for the time. Blue eyes flicker at the gesture before the prince says, “It’ll only take a few minutes, (y/n). We’ll be fine. Specs isn’t gonna scold you or anything.”

A dignified snort leaves you. “I’m not worried about scoldings, Noctis. I’m worried about daemons. Believe it or not, but I fear daemons more than Ignis’ quiet disappointment.” You pause before saying, voice comically high, “ _Actually_ …”

Noct laughs and elbows you in the ribs, as usual, making you jolt. He’s not exactly thinking about how you need to focus on the steep incline. Sediment shifts under your boots, the world tilts, and yet you still find the time and energy to surmount your panic to shoot Noctis an ugly glare as you go tumbling down the dirt path that leads up the mountain.

The prince swears and you hear him hastily skidding down the path after you. Spread-eagle, you stare up at the blue sky and the pearly clouds. When Noct finally gets to your side, he hears the longest exhale in the world. It lasts  _too_  long. At first he was worried. But since you’re up for being all dramatic, he knows you’re fine.

Squatting by your side, Noct brushes some dirt from your forehead, fingers lingering there, before asking, “You okay?”

Eyes snap to him and the sighing stops. “You make an attempt on my life and you have the gall to ask me, ‘You okay?’” Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gripe, “No, I’m not, you little turd! That fall was so long that I had time to file my taxes!”

Noct snorts, “You don’t pay taxes.”

You frown thoughtfully. “Excuse you? I may get paid under the table but does sales tax count for nothing?” Finally pushing yourself up into a sitting position, you check your bag and the salamander pokes its head out. It’s scowling at you for putting it through that wild ride. It was safer on Prompto Argentum’s damn head.

From head to toe, you’re covered in a fine layer of dirt to complement your sweat, which causes the salamander to turn its nose up distastefully when you extend your hand to it. The spotted amphibian leaves you hanging for a few seconds before crawling out from between your grimoire and a bag of potato chips to rest in your palm.

“Now that I think about it,” Noct muses, not letting you off the hook with his teasing, “you don’t do a lot of  _legal_  stuff. You don’t even have a license to-”

The salamander scoffs along with you, so indignant on its summoner’s behalf. “ _First_  you shove me off a cliff to my death and  _then_  you comment on my illegal operation of a motor vehicle?”

“I  _didn’t_  try to kill you.” Noct rolls his eyes. “But I’m sorry for making you fall.”

“Thank you. That’s all I ever really wanted.”

Without further ado, the prince helps you stand and yet again you’re pulling your phone out of your pocket. You only have about half an hour before nightfall and like hell are you going to try and climb the mountain again. A tortured sigh escapes you. Damn. You really wanted to see what all the hubbub was about with that dirt.

Teeth capture your bottom lip and you murmur to the amiable amphibian, “I didn’t want to have to do this, but do you mind going and getting me some dirt? Not gossip- I know the slang still throws you off, but I mean  _literal_  dirt and sediment from the summit.” The salamander bobs its head and you sigh gratefully, “Thank you. Feel free to take your time.”

Noct’s brow furrows as he watches you lower your hand to the ground and the salamander skitters off with purpose, sending dirt flying up in its haste. “You’re sending your familiar out?”

“They’ve been getting a little restless.” Shoulders bob up and down in a tired shrug. “Plus, if they’re busy, they don’t get to torment Prompto or eavesdrop. C’mon, let’s head back to the others before it gets dark.”

And the usual roles are taken. You’re the awkward, aloof mage who likes to keep elbowing Noct and shoving their hands in the pockets of their stuffy cardigan and Noctis is the bashful dork of a prince who acts like he isn’t purposefully yet carefully bumping his hand against the back of yours any chance he gets.

“Lovely weather,” you snark when the silence gets to be too awkward. And it’s only  _this_  awkward (like, you can cut the tension with a damn plastic spoon) because of all the stunts you pulled before. The thigh grabbing that honestly had a hint of accidental crotch bumping thrown in the mix, the weird not-kiss, the lower back “massage,” and the innuendo…

Even the ugly bracelet Noctis has around his wrist adds to the collective tension.

Noct exhales loudly, raven bangs practically slicked to his forehead at this point. He kicks at a rock and sends it sailing off as you two continue your long trek back to the outpost with its air-conditioning, running water, and  _food_. “Yeah. Wish every day could be like this.”

“Gladio would  _love_  the opportunity to tell everyone to take their jackets off like it’d make much of a difference.”

Blue eyes side-eye you. The prince’s lips twist into a smirk. “Well, with  _you_? You might actually be about a thousand degrees cooler without that old sweater.”

“Shut up. It’s a cohesive look. But I wouldn’t expect  _you_  to know anything about fashion. Just look at those jorts,” you tease.

“For the love of-” He cuts himself off, eyes turned to crescents but still trying to remain indignant. “They aren’t jorts and they  _aren’t_ capris!”

You’re about to retort when you hear his stomach growl. His cheeks go redder than the scorching heat already makes them. Your bag is adjusted on your side to give him easier access to stick his little gremlin hands in there and steal snacks, as usual. The bag’s strap tugs gently against your shoulder as the prince rummages through it.

“All I ask is that you leave me some gummy bears,” you sigh dramatically. “You always ransack my stash and leave me to starve to death.”

“I wasn’t gonna eat ‘em all. Besides, you know I prefer wor-” He goes eerily silent. Dread leadens your gut. A stealthy glance is stolen and confirms your fear. That trashy book is in his hands. His face is almost as red as the cover as he looks at that picture that borders on being softcore porn. Oh, the universe is a spiteful asshole. “What- Um.  _Why_?”

“ _Ramuh, take the wheel!”_

You knew it. You  _knew it_! The two of you were doing far too well talking to each other. Neither one of you was getting all awkward or letting your social ineptitude tie your tongue in knots. Well, I mean, sure there was awkwardness (it’s like a personality trait for you two) but it wasn’t the bad kind. This? Oh, this is  _bad_.

“Why what?” You ask flatly, pretending you aren’t dead inside and gently tugging the book out of his hand to stuff it back in your bag rather than wrenching it away and hurling it across the desert like you want. Thank the Six you sent that little sneak out on an errand. They  _told you_  it was a bad idea to buy the book. But it’s not like you were gonna take love advice from an ancient daemon.

His gaze is an obvious thing. It feels like someone just took a baseball bat to the side of your head. Too dramatic? Well, you’re kinda wishing someone would whack you over the head right now. Especially when he actually answers, voice a bit meek and struggling to be bold, “Why do you have a smut novel?”

Eyes cut to him and he flinches. Wow. Your expression must be deadly. “To read, of course. I’m doing research.”

You don’t know it, but he’s dying laughing on the inside at your mortified expression and how detached and “too cool” you’re trying to seem. The look on your face when you saw the book in his hand? Gods, he wishes he could’ve taken a picture. “So, uh,” lips twitch into an awkward smile, “what’d you learn?”

He’s trying to keep things lighthearted.

For your sake.

“How to give really good blowjobs.” I mean… You’re trying to keep it lighthearted, too. But you fail. Miserably. Because this literally helps no one feel less awkward and you  _won’t stop talking_. “But, as is with all theoretical knowledge, one must practice it first to see if they actually learned the concept.”

There’s a fatal flaw to yours and Noct’s little budding relationship. No, it’s not the arranged engagement that you two can easily overcome if you’d  _actually talk about it_. However, it’s a symptom of another issue. That issue is the inability to directly confront uncomfortable topics. It’s something that requires time and finesse. Something you two can eventually work out.

But  _right now_? When neither one of you has learned the art of avoiding awful,  _awful_  foot-in-mouth syndrome? When you’re both trying to tiptoe around bigger issues? Right now, both of you need to shut the hell up instead of thinking that painful humor will make things any better. It’s like you two are competing on who can dig their own grave the fastest.

His tone is a little high- higher than you’ve ever heard his voice go before. Joking and tense. If you were to touch him anywhere right now, even somewhere harmless like on his shoulder, he’d probably jump about a foot in the air. “Well, you know I’m always happy to help with your research.”

Dead.

You’re dead.

Yet you smile. It’s the best, most dazzling smile you own. It’s one of Noct’s favorites, honestly. It’s tied with the one that’s a crooked smirk with a flash of your eyes hidden beneath lashes. “Your generosity knows no bounds, Noctis, but I wouldn’t want to impose…  _However_ , as they say, practice  _does_  make perfect.”

He clears his throat. When next he speaks, his voice is now suspiciously deeper. Hands shove into the depths of his pockets. “So, uh, it’ll take a lot of practice?”

“A series of trial and error, I’d guess. However, I’ve always been a fast learner when given proper feedback.”

“That’s good.” That head of raven hair bobs. His swallow is audible. So is yours. You both blame your thirst and your increasing body temperature on the desert heat. Can’t blame other bodily reactions on the damn heat, though. Noct adds as an afterthought, “It usually takes me a few tries to learn something new.”

You nod in understanding. Stop yourself when you realize you’re nodding too much to the point that you look like a bobblehead. “With a good enough teacher, anyone can learn fairly quickly.”

“So, you’d teach me?” He asks this far,  _far_  too quickly; it’s almost a jumble of words that need to be deciphered first before they can be understood. He basically jumps at your statement to ask that question. Oh, how he damns himself for seeming so desperate. Oh, how he doesn’t realize how that  _one question_  sends a thrill up your spine.

With the world’s most contrived shrug, you drawl, “ _Sure_. I’ve taught you about herbalism so I can always branch out to cover other areas of interest, if you’d like.”

Thankfully,  _mercifully_ , you’re both interrupted when the outpost comes into sight and Prompto starts waving and calling out to you. It would appear he was eagerly awaiting the return of his two best friends in the world. Though, he’s secretly a little disappointed that you two didn’t make it an overnight thing with the campground on the summit.

He was  _so_  ready to convince Iggy to leave you two there and call off the manhunt.

“That was pretty quick!” Prom comments, taking in his bro’s feverish look with a knowing gleam in those blue eyes.

You make a beeline for the caravan, which you won’t leave all night, saying flippantly over your shoulder, “Yeah. Noct tried to kill me.”


	38. Black Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _You know how Prompto learned about the Iovitas in school and is basically their number 1 fan? Could you do a general ficlet about the average npcs' reactions to the reader and reader dealing with this attention? Are people meh about it, do they ask reader to shoot fire out their ears or does some crotchety elder think it would be a fantastic idea to have a magical in-law?_
> 
> They freak out, tbh. Wouldn’t you if you saw a real-life mage? Well, they freak out or they keep their distance. Who wants to get near a wanted mage? Anyway, I hope you like this, anon. Sorry if it’s… a little weird and short. It ~hints~ at future events.
> 
> **Warnings:** You’re Probs Too Cool, I Had to Make Up for Your Childhood Somehow, AU, The Real AU is that Vine isn’t Dead, The People of Lucis are the Best, Mild Angst

**Black Coffee**

When it happens to you the first time, you’re completely taken aback. Your name rings through the small gas station like a bell, sounding so familiar on a stranger’s tongue. There’s an inflection there, as if to say, “Are  _you_ really (y/n) Iovita?” 

Had you known better, you wouldn’t have reacted. But you turn around, unassuming, and confirm the suspicions of a woman not even five years your senior. She gasps dramatically, hands raised to her mouth, and you squint at her in confusion.

Then you’re swarmed by people of all ages. 

They come pouring in from where they’d been filling up their cars, the knowledge of your presence in the candy aisle spreading like wildfire. Luckily for you, they keep a safe distance. Otherwise? You might have had a panic attack at the sudden proximity and attention.

Strangers give you their support, thanking you for staying by Noct’s side and “fighting the good fight” against the Empire (“Give His Highness our best.”). They buy you things even though you adamantly refuse. They take pictures with you even though you politely ask them not to. 

And that’s how your visage comes to be known by the world: Vine.

Prompto plays the video on a near constant loop for Noct, the loops already in the millions. Ignis rubs his temples in small, circular motions and Gladio sighs irritably as that pre-pubescent voice cracks on your name over and over and over again. 

On the screen, you smile uncomfortably, brow furrowed, and hold up a peace sign with one hand as you hold a cup of steaming black coffee in the other as a pre-teen boy screams, “It’s (y/n) Freakin’ Iovita!”

It goes viral until the imperials have it ripped from the web.

Honestly, you didn’t expect anyone would know who you were. 

When Talmudge had mentioned that the Empire wanted you to swear fealty to them in order to gain the favor of the people of Lucis, you assumed it was mostly political maneuvering and not that the people  _actually_  gave a damn about you and what you did.

But they knew you. 

They may not have known your face since not a single photo of you existed outside of Prompto’s endless glamor shots, but they had known the sign of the Iovita mage- that crystal nestled at the end of a staff, so different from any other mage’s staff (though, that’s not to say people didn’t try and  _replicate_  it).

Now, you don’t take your staff with you into gas stations or public places. That tiny crystal is a beacon to magic enthusiasts with hawk eyes and anyone who went to school in Lucis (you damn the public education system for educating the masses about your family). 

However, that Vine went viral, and now you’re stuck wearing baseball caps with the bill pulled down low if you want to go anywhere without people staring.

No one snaps pictures of you anymore (or if they do, they don’t post it online to brag about unless they want to get shamed off of social media)  _but_  people still approach you. Particularly patriots, giddy scholars, and children who don’t have half the enthusiasm as those tired adults who study the arcane arts for a living.

“Never did I think I would get to meet an Iovita in my lifetime,” an elderly man told you, tears in his eyes. “Your family… They were  _good_  people. It’s an honor to meet you, Arch-Mage (y/n).”

“Whoa! It’s  _you_! Oh, stars above, I’m about to faint! Hold on!” A young woman took a deep breath, color in her cheeks, stars in her eyes, before she squealed, “Will you date me?! Just one date! I  _swear_  I’m not a weirdo! I have this blog about the Iovitas and-”

(The above scenario had Prompto pouting for a while. “All the girls just come flocking to you. It’s not fair, (y/n)!”)

“I’m gonna be a mage, too. Can you show me something cool, Arch-Mage (y/n)?” A little girl had glanced up at her mother when the woman gently nudged her. “ _Please_?”

This request happens often and you never correct anyone when they use that title. 

You juggle fireballs (and fail, but no one seems to care ‘cause you’re juggling  _fireballs_ ), make small ice figurines, and create thunderstorms in the palm of your hand. Years of being alone with only the occasional unlocked tablet and your magic to keep you entertained comes in handy.

“We should start chargin’ admission fees,” Gladio had joked one time when you got a little carried away by the excited laughter of children and made an intricate tower of ice.

But after a while, people start paying their own version of admission fees for your one-mage show whether you perform or not. 

Any time you’re at a diner, a cup of black coffee is slid your way along with a knowing nod. Even in gas stations, when you go to pay to fill up Choco Jr., the cashier will typically inform you that someone paid for your gas  _and_  for you to get a cup of coffee from the store.

And years later, when you stop off at a diner, defeated and missing the others dearly, you sit alone in a booth. 

The fluorescent lights flicker, the eternal darkness outside mirroring your thoughts. Eyes close, struggling to fight back tears, when a warm, earthy aroma has you startling to attention. A cup of black coffee sits in front of you and you remember all those strangers who thanked you for fighting the good fight.


	39. Bros: Downpour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was requested on tumblr. The request reads: _In one of the Prompto fics when he and Magey are discussing insecurities ect., Magey talks about how they're not really effected by nudity and I couldn't stop thinking about how awkward that might be if something came of that with the guys._
> 
> I wasn’t sure if the anon wanted this tied to any route in particular, so this is just in the poly route with no overt romance for any particular guy. In this fic, the guys aren't romantically involved with each other.
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Mildly NSFW, Intense Tense Flippage, You’re an Ass, Pre-Relationship, Cruel Crushes, Cringe, Mildly Suggestive Themes, A Difference in Upbringing  & Customs, One Refreshing Shower, OOC Galore, Garbage Writing, Cliffhanger???

**Downpour**

The sky is shrouded by leaves in the Malmalam Thicket, dappling gray light across you all as you trudge down amongst the verdant undergrowth. This place is teeming with all sorts of unique flora and Noctis has to backtrack for you a couple of times, once pulling you out of a rotted log where you’d been carefully removing malmashrooms. The others only noticed this interaction because he’d had to grab you by your ankles and drag you bodily from those interesting specimens, with you yelling all the while.

“I already got a bunch of ‘em for you,” the prince had snorted, eyes glinting at your petulant pout. They’d gleamed even more at how you’d gone all wide-eyed when he handed over everything he’d collected with you in mind.

But it’s what’s up above that you should be paying attention to. The treetops make it easy for you all not to realize that it’s about to rain. After felling a Bandersnatch and helping Noctis attain yet one more royal arm, you aren’t quite on your A-game and fail to recognize the familiar sweet scent of an incoming storm on the air. Even if you  _had_ , though, you’re all so drained that it would’ve been impossible not to wind up camping out in the thicket like you do. Still, Prompto acts like it.

“Dude! It’s like you always  _try_  to get us caught in the rain!”

“Relax,” sighs Noct, covering his poor, assaulted ear from the side Prom stands on, “we were gonna camp here, anyway.”

As the young men bicker, trading weak elbow blows, the prince’s advisors set about pitching the tent and setting up the awning to cover the cooking station, which hasn’t been set up yet. It’s barely even drizzling, just a few drops of water here and there, yet Prom behaves as if he’s made of the world’s most delicately spun cotton candy. When you say as much to the blond after you’ve finished setting up camp, he goes red in the face.

“Well, maybe I  _am_ ,” Prompto snaps back, sounding highly indignant and looking more than a little flustered. When he realizes how lame that comeback was, caramel colored freckles are nearly washed out by angry pink. Such a flattering shade on him only goes darker and darker the longer you stare at him without saying a word. Just when the poor guy thinks he’s about to explode under your gaze, you reach forward and card your fingers through his hair. Well… Now he’s  _red_.

“I-I-I-”

“You know,” you drawl, eyes trained on those pretty, light blond locks and the small droplets of water in them, “even if you  _are_  made of cotton candy, you should-” Prompto’s throat jerks with a hard and audible swallow. Noct rolls his eyes from where he stands beside his catatonic pal, gut twisting uncomfortably. Suddenly, you remove your fingers from Prom’s hair and bop him on the head. “-make yourself useful and stop whining about a little water. C’mon, dork, set up the cooking station so we can all eat,” you snap and it’s so damn hard not to laugh at how both guys freeze at your bluntness, like they haven’t already learned time and time again that you’re an absolute garbage monster.

Big blue eyes blink owlishly for a couple of seconds until your snarky tone finally sinks in. Huffing in contempt, Prompto waltzes away from you like he wasn’t putty in your hands literally a second ago; chin raised and bottom lip pouting out. The back of his neck is still a very bright pink, which undercuts his haughtiness. The sharpshooter ruffles his own fingers through his hair, attempting to fix what you and the rain ruined, before setting up the cooking station under Ignis’ appreciative gaze.

Dinner is a group effort. Oftentimes it isn’t, purely because Ignis Scientia is a control freak of the highest order, but everyone is equally wiped out from the day’s events that it’d be a crime against humanity to make Iggy cook alone. The brunet appreciates your help in particular. Not that he’s ungrateful of Noct’s…  _attempts_ , but you’re a fast learner and you always seem to take all of his advice to heart. Plus, it kinda fluffs the older guy’s feathers that you look to him as an authority on cuisine.

How many times have you asked him to try something you’ve made or for advice, eyes all wide and imploring? Such a shameless suck up.

“Hm,” Gladio grunts from his veggie chopping station. Amber eyes flit over where you scrub some carrots clean and Prompto’s efforts to dump chopped veggies in a pot with little splashing. “This dish might need more protein, Iggy.”

“This is what Noct requested,” the bespectacled brunet responds, prompt and tone a tad clipped.

At this bit of info, you’re pulled into the conversation. Eyes squinted with skepticism, you ask, “Really?  _He’s_  the one who wanted a vegetable soup?”

From under his breath, Prom bristles, “Yeah, so he can have an excuse to put more food in your bowl so you’ll  _swoon_.”

The Shield casts the jealous blond a sideways glance. The guy is lucky Gladio’s the only one who heard him or else things might get awkward. Glossing over that little barb, Gladdy suggests, “Well, how ‘bout we add some chicken? After that fight I think we need to fill the tank back up.”

“I think all these vegetables and legumes will give you more than enough gas in  _the tank_ ,” you quip and are swiftly rewarded with a disappointed shaking of Ignis’ head for that base joke. Gods, you’re lame and sometimes crass. So why does he find you so endearing?

The other super lame and crass member of the group laughs. “Good one, (y/n),” sniggers Prom. For his inattention, he accidentally splashes broth all over the cooking station’s table with a startled swear. Ignis sends him to the corner- I mean, dismisses him from his duties and instead has Noct take over Prom’s job. The prince gives the blond a bit of a stink-eye since now he has to stir the soup  _and_  add the ingredients. The horror and the injustice of it all.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gladio drawls, picking the conversation back up once all the hullabaloo surrounding Prompto getting booted off of the island dies down. “I know. You’re real cute, Magey.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

Such banter is supervised by three people who are a little irritated with themselves for getting irritated. Prompto is still all huffy because he was dismissed, arms crossed and brooding in the tent’s opening to hide from the drizzle, but now he’s got  _another_  reason to be irritated. Yours and Gladiolus’ banter is so easy that it leaves the others rather envious. Yeah, you have a good rapport with them all but the Shield just has a way of bringing you out of your shell.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s basically a giant teddy bear when he isn’t riding everyone’s ass about training and eating meat with meals? Because Iggy will be the first to admit that he’s still pretty stiff and formal in your presence despite your reciprocal efforts to pal around like you aren’t a couple of highly important people with certain expectations placed on your behavior toward each other. There’s still a wall that needs to come down between the two of you.

And you’re still a little weird with Prompto. Mind you, it’s his own shyness concerning his  _massive_  crush on you that tends to make things weird, but it’s difficult to consolidate your feelings outside of some secret that you’re unaware of. For you, you find that you need to reel your sarcastic humor in when you’re around him because you’re fearful of offending your prince’s best friend. Yes. That’s a thing that you worry about.

You’d just hate it if you said something wrong and ended up putting Noct in a position where he’d have to tell you not to be so friendly with  _his_  friend. But, boy, if either one of them were to find this out they’d be frustrated… after laughing at you, of course. ‘Cause Noct is hardly the type to put on airs concerning his royal blood and Prom isn’t the type to fake friendships. They’d be offended if you implied as much with your reservations.

Even Gladio would argue that there’s residual tension between you and him. It’s the same breed as the kind you share with Iggy: borne from lofty expectations and a Spire education that told you never to get too familiar with your betters.

There’s a wall between you and everyone that’s about to come down today. It just isn’t the one they’re all thinking of.

When everyone is finished eating (the soup takes a bit longer because Iggy  _had_  to cook chicken for those who really, really wanted it), you all hang out in the tent as that mild drizzle finally kicks up into a torrential downpour. The sound is soothing; raindrops pelting the roof of the tent and the stone of the protected campsite. The downpour sends a great burst of the aroma of wet earth up into the air, prompting you to close your eyes and smile.

It’s serene…  _if_ you can ignore the flashes of light and sound from the guys playing King’s Knight and the collective stink of battle sweat.

The longer you sit in here thumbing the pages of your grimoire under the comforting light of a floating fireball, the longer you think you’re liable to die of asphyxiation from everyone’s stank. Nose almost numbed, you just can’t take it anymore and you snap your book shut and shrug off your cardigan. Ignis stops the game grind to watch you with a puckered brow. Pawing through your bag, you bring out your shower gear and now you have everyone’s attention.

“Uh,” Prom’s gaze flits from your shower caddy to you and back again, “whatcha doin’, (y/n)?”

“I’m going to take a shower,” you reply simply. When that response is met with scoffs and snorts, you add, “Stress sweat reeks and sitting in this tent with all of you is getting closer and closer to being categorized as a form of torture that even the  _Empire_  would think is too extreme to implement.”

“Haughty Mage.”

Eyes roll so hard and you scoff even harder. “Clever, Gladiolus. Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back too hard for that one.”

And with that, you begin to disrobe. And with that, all hell breaks loose.

“Whoa! (y/n)!” Prompto slaps his hand over his eyes (a little too aggressively, too, which he’ll come to regret shortly). Ribs ache, his heart pounding relentlessly like a drum. Six, he’s nearly given himself whiplash by turning his head so abruptly from you, not trusting himself not to peek at you from between his fingers if he’d stayed facing you.

Ignis barely refrains from following Prompto’s lead. Green eyes are ordered to stay affixed to his flashing phone screen. After less than five seconds, that becomes impossible, and Iggy closes King’s Knight for something with a better chance of holding his attention, like the news or an e-book… or a recipe he was in the middle of finagling into something everyone could eat without complaint. Yeah, that sounds good! That… His eyes dart back in your direction and he sighs internally.

“What?” You scoff from behind a veil of smelly shirts, fighting to take them off. Gross enough, the fabric is stuck to you with dried sweat. Gods, fighting that damn creature was a pain in the ass.

With a face as red as a cherry despite how he’s attempting to come off aloof right now, Noct quips, “Why’re you being an exhibitionist?”

“The better question is: Why are you nerds freaking out?” You retort, finally freeing yourself of your fabric prison. The next thing you say makes everyone freeze and walk back their hysteria, both the overt kind and the internal. “We’ve all seen each other in some state of undress. It’s the nature of living on the road. There’s nothing obscene about it.”

That’s… true. How many times have you all seen Gladio totally naked? The guy seemingly doesn’t have a care in the world and is totally unfazed when walked in on. Although, surprisingly, he isn’t so cool right now. Though he may not be pink-cheeked like his friends, there’s a weird stiffness to his shoulders and he seems almost too determined to keep looking at you like normal, like you aren’t wearing less and less clothes the longer he stares.

But… no.  _No_. This is weird. This is different. When you’d get caught with your pants around your ankles (literally), there weren’t romantic undertones. Nobody had a crush on you at that point. And this is a bit more than pants and the dynamic has shifted, with or without your acknowledgement. Sure, it looks like you’re thankfully going to be keeping your undies and your undershirt on, but that hardly leaves anything to the imagination.

Noct pries his eyes off of your stomach when your undershirt lifts. A hint of skin has never been so hypnot- Oh, shit. Prompto is staring right at him, that fluffy-haired blond still determined to keep his back to you, which puts him in the prime position to stare judgmentally at his best friend and his ogling ways. Prompto’s head shakes ever so slightly in disappointment and color rises into Noct’s cheeks.

“Besides,” you add, going to work on your pants, much to everyone’s growing horror, “nonsexual nudity is only weird if you make it that way and right now I’m more offended over the idea of staying filthy than one of you seeing my bare ass which, to be honest, a  _bunch_  of Spire students and grads have seen it in the college’s showers since stalls were for people who had the  _luxury_  to wait for one to free up."

The way you say “nonsexual” is both jarring and sobering. It’s like a firm, open-handed smack across the face that says, loud and clear, that nothing has changed for you. Your feelings toward them all are still totally friendly and definitely  _not_  sexual which would be fine if their feelings were still totally friendly and definitely not sexual. Well, if the guys are all being honest with themselves and to put it in Prom’s words, that  _sucks_.

The neutral, inoffensive gray shower caddy is picked up and you walk out into the downpour without further ado, leaving them all with their thoughts.

Under that cold, relentless shower, you finally free yourself of your undergarments. Raindrops pelt your face as you look up toward the darkening sky that’s shrouded by the canopy overhead. Taking a few steps away from the tent to give yourself some distance so you don’t wind up with your suds encroaching on the tent, you kneel down and grab your shampoo and conditioner before setting to work on getting yourself nice and clean.

Back in the tent, glances are exchanged. A tense atmosphere descends upon the group as ears prick and strain to hear what you do outside. Your soft humming reaches them and makes cheeks blush once more. There’s silence as the guys try to figure out what to do next. Should they go back to playing games or reading? Like they don’t know that you’re naked in the rain? Should… Should they join you? You  _had_  mentioned the smell… Would that be too weird, though? Yeah, it’d be too-

“Well,” grunts Gladio as he gets on his knees and begins digging through his own shower supplies, “Magey had a good point. I need a shower.”

_Of course_ it’d be him!

Oh, the glares that he gets. But the Shield doesn’t have a single fuck to give. It’s not his fault if the others have an issue with showering in the rain with _you_. The tall, brunet bodyguard tells himself that he doesn’t have anything to worry about. Like you said, it’s only weird if he makes it weird and he’s determined _not_ to make it weird. Besides, the two of you are great friends and what’s a shower between friends? Gladiolus used to go to hot springs and saunas with friends all the time back in Insomnia.

But this is a dangerous game that Gladdy is playing with himself. ‘Cause those friends that he went to those places with? He never had a crush on a single one of them.

There’s a quick zipping sound and then sweet air comes rushing into the tent. Gladio exits, completely nude, and zips the tent’s entrance shut once more. Out under the treetops with cold water pricking his skin, Gladiolus becomes acutely aware of just how much the air stank in that damn tent and just how thick the smelly air was, too. Those ruminations over the group’s hygiene are thrust onto the back burner the second Gladiolus spots you with your arms outstretched toward the sky.

Amber eyes drag over your form, wavering as they alight upon your thighs and up toward the curve of your rear. Your back is to him- a blessing in disguise. The Shield has to swallow around a lump in his throat and fight off a scalding blush that burns him from his neck up to the tips of his ears before he can coolly call out, “Hey, Magey. You prayin’ to Ramuh or somethin'?”

Arms fall back down to your sides and you turn toward Gladio with an unimpressed smirk. “Yeah. I’m asking him to keep the lightning at bay. But, just for  _you_ , I’ll ask him to bring it back.”

Gladdy snorts and you turn back around. The very second you turn around, he lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He knew what he was setting himself up for by calling out to you. He knew you’d turn around and he’d get a full frontal view of the enigmatic and ridiculously sarcastic mage who has been the star of his dreams for weeks now. And, yes, he’s sure you saw him look. Six this is hard- Okay, probably not the best word to use. This is  _difficult_.

With ridiculously robotic movements, Gladiolus clenches his jaw and shampoos his hair.

In the tent, Prompto sighs after hearing that casual exchange. Sometimes, he wishes he could be as cool about a crush as Gladio. Okay,  _most times_. The shutterbug is unaware that his tall pal is actually having a tough time of it and is currently regretting going outside with every fiber of his being. It’s the assumption that Gladiolus is able to effortlessly strut his stuff around you that has Prompto putting his own reservations about public nudity on hold.

Because here’s the thing that sticks in Prompto Argentum’s craw: Gladiolus Amicitia is currently  _naked_  with (y/n) Iovita.

The blond tells himself that it’ll only be a matter of time before you swoon over the guy and his unfair muscles. Of course he doesn’t quite “get” that you aren’t even looking at the guy and are steadfastly staring out into the wilderness after getting an eyeful and that this awkward feeling is mutual. How would Prom know? All he heard was a casual conversation-  _banter_ \- and that’s enough to feed both his imagination and his jealous streak.

To say that Noctis Lucis Caelum is thrown for a loop (or several) when his shy best friend begins to follow the Shield’s lead by stripping would be the understatement of the godsdamned century. The raven-haired royal had already resigned himself to wallowing in his own putrid odor with King’s Knight flashing on his phone’s screen and he honestly thought his best bud was in the same boat.  _Au contraire_. Envy is a hell of a drug.

“What the heck are you doing?” Noct gapes, stunned and maybe mildly alarmed.

Red as a cherry because now he has an audience, Prompto snaps back perhaps too curtly, “Gonna shower. (y/n) was right. It stinks in here. Besides-” Prom cuts himself off with a swear. Damn all these fashionable belts and layers! “ _Besides_ , I don’t want to end up with a bunch of acne ‘cause I let all this sweat stay on me overnight. C’mon, dude.”

And there it is.

With doubt and self-consciousness creeping up on him the longer he thinks about his decision, Prompto Argentum just  _has_  to rope his partner in crime into this mess. Pretending to be a benevolent carer of skin clarity, Prom will drag Noct, kicking and screaming, out into the rain with him. Little does he know he just provided Ignis Scientia with the perfect cover for ripping his own clothes off and joining you in the rain shower.

“Prompto is right,” Ignis says, much to Noct’s (and Prompto’s) shock. “After that fight,  _not_  showering would be incredibly unhygienic. Let’s go.”

Is it weird for them to strip down together, all knowing that they’re doing it because they either a.) don’t want the ripped member of the group wooing you, b.) want to see you in the nude, or c.) all of the above? Yes. Yes, it is. Crushes have never been huge secrets with this tight-knit group, with Prompto’s affections being the easiest to sniff out. So the knowledge that they all have a crush on you and are all about to see you naked for the first time just adds one more awkward layer to this cake.

Noct’s skin erupts in goosebumps the second he peels his shirt off and exposes himself to the cool air. Prompto frowns at his friend’s unblemished skin. He quickly averts his gaze. I mean, Prom likes to think he’s caught you checking him out once or twice, but… Okay, Prompto has to get out of his own head. The fastest way to do that is to throw himself out into the rain before he can appraise Ignis’ tall figure and measure himself against it.

Back in the tent, Noct can’t help but laugh when Prompto immediately shrieks at the feeling of the frigid rain. A smile on his face, Ignis demurely gestures toward the tent’s entrance. “After you.”

Noct returns the strained smile. “Yeah. Thanks. Hopefully that scream was just Prompto being all dramatic, as usual.”

With the way his skin is already growing clammy, Ignis highly doubts that but still gives his friend a reassuring smile. And he’s exactly right. Ignis can’t help shivering the second he gets outside. It’ll take a while before he gets accustomed to it, those droplets of water seeming to leech out his body heat, turning warm as they glide down his legs to form a puddle at his feet. You’re the only one who seems unfazed by the temperature, going through the motions of a regular old shower.

It’s difficult to see the sky in the thicket but gray light still filters through the leaves, making you look ethereal. The trio shares a collective inhale at the sight of you before hastily attempting to play it cool, much like Gladio did. And you? Well, you’re feeling like a fool ‘cause you just  _had_ to say that this would only be weird if they all made it weird. But right now, you’re making it weird for yourself.

Give yourself some credit, though. Nudity has never got under your skin before, yes. You’ve always been rather unflappable in the context of seeing someone naked in a shower setting. How were you to know that it would be remarkably difficult- no, damn near  _impossible_  not to give in to the desire to appreciatively appraise the figure of your object of affection? Actually,  _objects_ of your affection… Six, you think the guys might get creeped out if they ever found out that you’re crushing on them all equally.

So, you steel your nerves, put on your mask, and continue to look out into the calming wilderness while pretending that you don’t realize that four naked men are showering behind you. A mandrake stumbles by and is swallowed up by the thicket. As a precautionary measure, you surround the camp with protective fireballs. It would be unfortunate and maybe hilarious if you all got attacked right now. This move is mistaken for consideration.

“Aw, thanks, (y/n)!” Coos Prom. “The warmth feels great!”

“Yeah,” agrees Noct, basking in that pleasant heat.

Just as you’re about to awkwardly correct them about your true intentions, Gladio gripes, “Yeah. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you only heated up the air when the  _others_  came out, Magey.”

Irritated, you whirl around and gibe acidly, “I figured they might need a bit more warmth than you, Gladiolus, considering you’re naturally so full of hot air.”

Silence.

It was one thing for them to see your ass, like you so bluntly confessed many a mage had already seen. But it’s entirely different to now see all of you. A great act is played and for a moment the campsite is a stage. Arousal is beaten away with a stick and lighthearted, friendly banter is encouraged to take over. Ignis is the first one to make a move. It’s laughter at Gladio’s expense. Emerald eyes are squinted, shooting the Shield a light look, and the older brunet huffs with a crossing of his arms.

Now Prompto joins, blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “(y/n) gotcha good, big guy.”

“Yup,” chuckles Noct. “I think, so far today, it’s (y/n): 3 and Gladio: 0. You gotta step up your game.”

Shaking your head, you turn back around. At your back, a collective, shaky breath is exhaled. That was a close one. The group shower continues in a dead, awkward silence that nobody seems able or willing to clear. Gazes are kept up at chest level when the first sign of arousal is noticed (Noct wants to die and Ignis… well, he craves death, too) and it’s like it somehow gets even quieter. So much for all your big talk about this whole nudity thing not being a big deal. It  _is_ a big,  _weird_  deal!

And it’s like everyone willingly walked into a trap and they’re too stubborn to get out of it, because they all knew that their crush on you would negatively factor into the experience.

Not that seeing you in the buff is a bad experience! It’s a good one. It’s  _too_  good. It’ll make sleep elude both Prompto and Ignis for several nights and have Gladiolus reading the same line in his book tomorrow morning as he fantasizes about what “could have” happened if the others hadn’t come out. Okay, the Shield knows that’s dumb. If the others hadn’t joined you two, he would’ve continued to stay several feet away from you while staring at your ass like it was a damn magnet.

Still, a guy can dream.

As for Noct, well, you’ve ruined rainstorms for him. Now when he smells that sweet aroma on the air or hears the familiar patter of raindrops on a rooftop, his body will have a very visceral reaction. He’ll close his eyes and see you standing there in the rain in the middle of camp, hands on your body and water dripping down your back and thighs in rivulets. Rain shouldn’t be arousing. It just shouldn’t. But each time it rains, the prince will find himself shifting his position and coughing.

“This was a splendid idea,” Ignis praises, daring to break the silence. Look, he’s trying. This is painful and feels like it’s a second away from turning into a nightmare if you were to turn back around and look at him, but he’s  _trying_. “Perhaps we should all do this more often.”

“Yeah,” Gladio agrees and he wants to strangle himself. “It's pretty invigorating. If we’re ever out on the road again without a bathroom, I can see doin’ this again.” Why is he still talking? Why is he actually trying to make a strong case for this stupid suggestion that’ll only present the opportunity for you to see his straining erection which he’s already trying and failing to meditate away?

The younger men agree far too enthusiastically. Glances are exchanged behind your back, a silent agreement is made that they’re all full of crap but that you don’t need to know that.

In all honesty, you think you might’ve played yourself. A solo shower was your goal but you didn’t have the foresight to explicitly state as much, especially not after all that posturing you did concerning how much better you are than everyone else because nudity doesn’t faze you. Bullshit. Nude strangers in communal showers? That doesn’t ruffle your feathers. Nude friends-bordering-on-something-more out in the wilderness? Two totally different things. Those aren’t even  _remotely_  the same.

With a thousand yard stare, you gaze out into the dark void of the wilderness with a grimace.

One of your better qualities is that you know when to admit that you’re wrong. One of your worse qualities is that your timing leaves a lot to be desired. Today, those two traits collide fatally in your attempt to keep this “group rain shower” plan from coming to fruition. Because you just don’t think you can handle that emotionally. You don’t think it’s fair to the guys for you to see them naked when you have deeper feelings for them. ‘Cause wouldn’t that knowledge make them uncomfortable?

With a quick pivot on your heel, you turn to face your friends and grimly confess, “No. That’s not a good idea.”

Emerald eyes blink rapidly at your sudden about-face. “I’m sorry?”

A deep breath is taken for courage, prompting everyone to stop sudsing up and rinsing off. “Look, I don’t think it’s right for me to shower with you all. I know that I said that nudity means nothing and it’s only weird if someone makes it weird and that  _might have_  led you all to think that I was totally fine with seeing you all naked. However…” You make the mistake of looking each of them in the eye. Nerve is lost and you cast your gaze off to the side.

“(y/n). C’mon. What is it?” Noct coaxes. The whole being naked thing makes coaxing you much harder. He wouldn’t dare touch your shoulder or rub your arm right now.

“I have a bit of a crush on all of you,” you admit and it’s as abrupt as a lightning strike- just as stunning, too. Their blank expressions are surveyed and you frown. Bending down, you swipe up your shower caddy and add, “So, no offense, but I’d rather not continue to shower with you all. That’s getting into odd territory. Don’t let me keep you guys from enjoying a group shower, though.”

With that all said and done, you march back toward the tent with your cheeks on fire and disappear inside where you dry off and get dressed in clean clothes. For the guys, it’s like the rain got about a million times louder. Nerves are abuzz as they glance around at each other, wondering if they all heard the same thing. Yup. You just confessed to having feelings for them. Yup. You just said that you have a crush on  _all of them_.

After a century, Prompto clears his throat and coughs, “So...”

Nobody says a word.


	40. 14. Stars (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This skips over the first Aranea encounter same as the first Ravus one (since there are side stories for that and I don't wanna bore y'all by rehashing everything) and occurs in chapter 7 of the game's canon material. For Noct... the recent addition of “Thoughtless” is something that’s already taken place in this nonsensical timeline. You two are boiling over with sexual tension. Dorks. 
> 
> But in this chapter? It’s all angst. Lots of crap needs to get worked out before you two can have a “happily ever after.” 
> 
> Okay, I’m going to be honest real quick... I’m not a fan of Noct’s and Luna’s journal communications mostly because it’s so infuriatingly inefficient. But I’mma deal. Here’s me ham-fistedly dealing with the engagement once more. As for everyone else? Enjoy actual romance. Iggy and Gladdy are very, _very_ NSFW.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, What’s a Timeline?, MEGA Angst, Princes Making Bad Choices, Internal Monologuing Hour, That Wasn’t Very Versace of You Noct, Watch as I Butcher Your Fave, Innuendo, Just Let Prompto Live, Sexually Frustrated Mages Say the Darndest Things, Dom!Prom???, Now Kiss, NSFW, Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Ignis Killed You, You Shouldn’t Do That in the Kitchen, Mild Food Play, Dom!Iggy???, Cake, Mages are the #1 Leading Cause of Death in Lucis, Death by Oral Sex, 69, You Killed Gladio

**14\. Stars**

**Noctis**

Noct can never quite pin down a certain facet of your personality. Though he can say with absolute certainty that you’re devious, charming, intelligent, and alluring... there’s something intangible about you. He reaches out for it and like smoke it escapes his grasp- _you_ evade his grasp- leaving him there, empty-handed and confused. And now that your “familiar” is around, you seem even more ethereal. That strange spirit in the form of an animal seems to make you less real. Right now, it’s a flat-faced feline curled up on your lap, tail thumping against your thigh as you flip through your grimoire and sip your coffee. Every now and then you murmur something to the cat and Noct almost hears it murmur back. 

King’s Knight is paused, phone set down beside him on the kitchen counter that he’s perched on. That familiar? It’s always there by your side. Always there to whisper advice as you scan the contents of your grimoire, to help with your research. Always there to lead Noct toward you, stepping out of shadows. It’s like the familiar knows when you’re getting overwhelmed and overworked. And when it detects your fatigue, off it goes to entreat the royal for his aid. 

Noct isn’t perturbed in the slightest by the familiar’s persistence _or_ its insistence on _only_ coming to him to lift your mood. He’s ever eager for a reason to hang around you, to bask in that intangible quality of yours, to catch you looking at him and know that he’s the reason you look so flustered. He especially enjoys your lame jokes that are meant to send him away. They never work. 

“Take a picture,” you drawl, turning a page in your grimoire, not sparing the raven-haired royal a glance, “it’ll last longer.” Like now. That lame barb isn’t going to send him off like a frightened  child. Though you try to be intimidating at times, you just... _aren’t_. Like, _at all_. Maybe you would be if Noctis didn’t know you; if he hadn’t been privy to your high points and low points, if he hadn’t been there to quietly guide you through them and vice versa. 

“ _So_ hostile,” the prince sighs, sounding bored. Steely blue eyes continue to watch in spite of your remark. He knows why you’re constantly pushing and pulling at him. It’s why there’s such palpable tension between you two now that you’re alone together. It’s a rare period of downtime that everyone takes advantage of in their own way. 

Though free time is certainly a rarity- something to covet- a routine has already been established. You’re all supposed to spend quality time _together_. Except... you all spend _every waking moment_ together. Everyone is on everyone else’s last damn nerve. So that established routine? It’s torn up and tossed in the trash like a newspaper with yet another imperial-grade propaganda piece on the cover. The caravan in northern Alstor quickly grew cramped with tension and conflict. Accidental bumps of an elbow were seen as personal affronts and a careless glance held a litany of projected feelings. The others dispersed, leaving you alone in the caravan; daemon on your lap, grimoire in hand, and sipping Iggy’s wonderful coffee. 

Except Noctis, predictably, didn’t stay away. Such an obvious thing, apparently, because Ignis has had words with him over it now. Watching his charge tail the mage, watching the mage lavish the raven-haired prince with affection and subsequently act like it never happened. Specs told Noct it wasn’t fair to you for him to keep at it this way with no resolution on his engagement. 

“Have you discussed things with Lady Lunafreya?” The bespectacled brunet had given his childhood friend a hard look when blue eyes refused to meet his. “Not all love is romantic love, Noctis. I’m positive Lady Lunafreya will be more than understand-” 

“Why are we talking about this right now?” 

And that sharp tone had ended the conversation, Iggy never having been one to push people too far beyond their boundaries. But all parties would be lying if they said they weren’t getting impatient. It’s what jettisons Noctis off down the path of bringing you up to Luna in their journal. Except he doesn’t really “bring you up.” Shame is what he feels, even now. He’d stared at the photo he’d attached with bits of tape; a picture Prompto had taken of you wearing Noct’s cap, grinning like a little devil, and Noct pouting. He feels cruel for sending it without a caption, for flaunting a candid moment while Luna is in peril. Without a caption, it seems like a jab. 

It says: “I know we were engaged before the world went to hell and neither of us really had a say in it... So, is this okay?” 

So many insecurities, yet he’d sent it along with Umbra all the same. And now he waits. 

Noctis doesn’t bring it up to you, knowing full well it’s a sore spot. A part of him doesn’t want to tell you because he fears you’ll think him a coward. A part of him doesn’t want to tell you because he isn’t even fully sure if you’re actually interested in him romantically. Despite all the teasing, despite all the heartfelt talks, you’re indecipherable. A defense mechanism, really. Because why would you fully expose yourself and lay your heart bare when there’s a very real possibility that you’ll come out worse for it? Logical, right? But you’re beginning to grow so tired of this. Of trying to circumvent a minefield of perceived emotions. Of pulling Noctis close only to remember yourself and push him away. 

The cat on your lap purrs, not particularly comfortable with the tension but still jovial. Its two favorite people are in the same room, safe and sound. What more could it want? A lot, actually. But, for now, it’ll settle for making biscuits on your thigh and teasing, “Is that frustration or sexual tension? I can never _quite_ tell with you two. Maybe if you stopped blurring the line it-” 

“That’s _enough_ ,” you hiss, snapping your grimoire shut. The tawny cat is picked up and dropped on the kitchen bench beside you as punishment. Coffee is downed in one long pull and you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Gods, you’re _not_ about to sit around and have a friggin’ daemon in cat skin commentate on your sex life... or lack thereof. 

Unfortunately, it’s one of the few moments where Noct is able to hear the daemon’s voice as clear as a bell. He’s ripped right out of his musing and thrust straight into embarrassment. Six, even the _daemon_ has caught on to this strange dynamic? It’s enough that Prompto is always trying to throw you at him and Iggy is championing for your honor... Now the daemon is in the peanut gallery, too? 

Sweater is adjusted haughtily, eyes narrowed at that evil cat, and you activate its trap card. Because what do you do? You fix Noct with a hard stare and order, “Let’s take a walk.” You totally miss the self-satisfied look on that flat face, golden eyes glimmering evilly. So does Noct. Because he’s stunned by your forceful tone. 

Lately, you’ve sorta been full of energy. If you ignore the fact that you’re lying by omission with everyone, that you lost your home and your only family, this is a weirdly high point in your life. Mood-wise, for sure. Comfort is drawn from your friends and from the daemon. You get love from your friends and a guiding force from the daemon. It’s as if the strange, yellow- eyed creature has made it its life goal to make sure you’re content and you’re broadening your knowledge on the arcane arts. It’s almost suspiciously knowledgeable. It’s the best damn teacher you’ve ever had. With the daemon by your side, you aren’t nervous. Confidence grows and you open up more with the others as a result. 

The transition in you is obvious to Noct. Sure, you’re still all secretive but you’re back to your haughty, holier-than-thou self. Except now you’re a bit more forward. You were always rather blunt but now there’s something more insistent there. He’s unaware that the daemon is wing- manning the hell out of you. That it has taken up the mantle of life coach when you aren’t calling or texting Drusa. 

“A walk?” He parrots, snapping back to reality when your brow furrows at his lack of a response. He’s having a bit of déjà vu, though. Already he’s had one person ask him to go for a walk this morning and it ended with a request for permission to leave. Noct is hoping you aren’t going to go the way of Gladio. He doesn’t know how long he could go without your company. 

At his hesitant expression, you pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh, “Or don’t. Whatever. But I’m going for a walk.” An ugly look is thrown at the tawny cat that sits behind you. “Bye.” 

“Bye-bye!” 

Eyes roll into the back of your head as you leave the caravan, leaving Noct on the kitchen counter like a roll of paper towels. As per usual, despite his reservations he’s trailing after you. Hell, you never take that bossy tone with him unless you’re serious. And (y/n) Iovita is a frightening sight to behold when someone truly pisses them off. Noct has a lot of thinking to do, that’s for damn sure, and he tries in vain to get it all out of the way at once as he hurries along. Not that he _hasn’t_ been thinking before! It’s just... Things are just... He’s making things more complicated than they need to be and the infuriating part is that he _knows_ this. He knows he should just talk things out but he’s never been a blunt talker. 

And he’s far too conscientious about others’ feelings. If you think you’re awkward, Noctis Lucis Caelum is a hell of a lot worse. Because _you_ can let things bubble up enough to where you’ve just _had it_ and you let everything out. But Noct? It all stays tamped down. He tries to puzzle it all out quietly, as if his feelings might be a burden to others. A quality you’ve noticed over time. A  quality that makes him almost impossible to read. It’s a cold war with you two trying to find out what the other is feeling without directly asking. So unproductive. So frustrating. So unfair to each other. Funny how being hyperconscious of each other’s feelings makes you stomp all over them. 

“Why’d you need to take a walk?” Noct finally asks when you two have been walking aimlessly for... What? Five minutes? Talk about an awkward silence. 

There’s a mild breeze that carries along the smell of damp earth and dualhorn dung. It’s a bit overcast, clouds gray and patchy, like cotton that’s been pulled apart and stretched thin. Sunbeams peek through here and there, pale yellow and blinding. But you don’t really see the sky, so focused on not stepping in any of those dualhorn patties that choke the air from your lungs. You only stop so you can look at him over your shoulder and reply, “It was a bit crowded in the caravan,” before you continue strolling through scenic Alstor and its minefield of dung. The prince huffs a laugh before picking up his pace to walk in step with you rather than trailing behind. He feels you on that one. Your “familiar” has a bold personality. 

“Anywhere you wanna go in particular?” Noct queries, hands shoved in his pockets, blue eyes stealing a glance at that ethereal mage. He admires how the light catches your eyes but nearly drops dead when you almost catch him staring. 

Shoulders shrug and you drawl lazily, “Nah. Why? You have somewhere to be?” 

“Nah.” 

Easy, mindless conversation. Something you could never do before. Conversations used to always need to have a purpose and they needed to be short and to the point. But with the easy-going prince you can disengage and reengage seamlessly. It’s a rapport that took a lot of time and effort to establish. A wrench is only ever thrown into the system by way of petty arguments or sexual references. Neither of you knows how to feel about the latter. It’s exciting and thrilling and oh so taboo. Neither one of you has ever had that with someone else before. Never received it and actually wanted it. Never said it and actually meant it. It has hearts beating quickly and palms sweating. And on its heels comes fear and uncertainty. 

You were a little hellion back in the Spire but you never made any sort of sexual advances toward anyone. There were some attractive mages, of course, but there was always a strange power dynamic in play that made things feel a bit... gross. As the child of the family in charge, you just felt like you had too much weight behind your name. _That_ and a bunch of mages your age hated you anyway, _so_... You weren’t about to get naked with someone who was liable to smother you with a pillow or hold the tryst over your head as blackmail. Is it sad that you were way too damn paranoid to be a stereotypical horny teenager? But now? With Noctis? With someone who _doesn’t_ abuse his power or hold it over your head? Six, save you both. 

Nobody prepared you for Prince Charming. You’d heard rumors that he was a recluse, but being one as well you didn’t see the shame in that. No rumors could have prepared you for that dorky laugh, those lame jokes, or that genuine kindness. Nothing on Eos could have prepared you for those disappointed pouts or grimaces at vegetables. And absolutely nothing could have prepared Noctis for _you_. The mage who so elegantly swept him off of his feet and left him in a daze ever since. Even now, walking around with you, he feels like he’s walking in a dream except... more real? Noct doesn’t rightly know how to even explain it. 

He bumps his hand against the back of yours but you’re so caught up in your thoughts that you don’t notice. A disappointed sigh leaves him. Blue eyes cut to your pensive face and then glance up at the sky. He thinks back on everything you’ve ever said to him- every passing remark, every joke. He thinks about the funny looks and the heated gazes. He remembers the fear that leadened his gut at the sound of your pained cry and how you’d felt when you died in his arms... Could he  live with himself if he lost you for good without ever having told you how he feels? 

Again, he glances at you, bumps his hand against yours. Again, you don’t notice. He realizes he can’t afford to keep being meek. Sometimes he wishes he could be like you. Funny how he thinks you’re so damn bold when in reality you’re scared as hell. But he sees boldness in your thinly- veiled sexual jokes and teasing advances. Except... All of your flirtation and innuendo begs for _him_ to say _something_. To tell you that it’s okay for you to draw near. But he’s far too shy and you’re in a tricky spot. Because you don’t know how these things go. Though you’ve spent loads of quality time together, all social conventions state that you need to “officially date” for things to progress romantically. 

Drusa didn’t know how to handle her adopted child struggling to come to terms with wanting to romance their best friend and future king. Knowing you so well, she couldn’t formulate a response that _wouldn’t_ make you shut down and back off- pushing the issue aside altogether, letting a potentially healthy and mature relationship blow away in the wind. 

“Drusa, he’s engaged.” 

You didn’t know how much that statement irritated her. You don’t know how much anger the kindest, dorkiest woman you know holds inside of her. Because yes, she knows that an engagement was part of the arrangement set up by the Empire. But she also knows that it was all a trick. A trick that got your mother, her best friend, killed. She took a long, steadying breath after those words left your lips. She told herself to be kind and patient and to not ask why you still put so much _weight_ behind something of the Empire’s making. However, before your unofficial stepmother graciously bowed out to let you resolve the issue in your own way, she left you with a bit of advice: 

“Remember that the engagement was part of a cruel ruse, (y/n). You won’t ever know if what you’re feeling is mutual if you don’t gather the nerve to ask for yourself. And if it isn’t? Well, there’s no law against remaining friends. Clearly, you love him. It isn’t just infatuation or lust so it won’t just go away.” 

That part about it not just going away made you feel even worse at first, though. It would be comforting to know that if you get rejected those feelings can just go away over time instead of you being stuck with ‘em. But if it’s love for Noctis? Of wanting him to be healthy and happy? You find that you can live with that even if it’s only just that. Then you got a text because Drusa felt she had been a bit too cold: 

_Btw, I’m not dumb. I knew what you were getting at, honey. There’s also no law against having sex if you’ve already got to that point w/o dates. Dates are for people with time! Be safe!!! :)))_

And you were simultaneously grateful and wishing for death. You texted back indignantly: 

_It’s not like that!_

Her response was a simple: 

_lol okay sure, honey!_

Suddenly you’re ripped out of your musings by something tugging at the sleeve of your sweater. You look down with a startled blink to find Noct holding the cuff of your sleeve between his index and middle fingers. Eyes shoot up and zero in on pink cheeks. _Okay_... Heart is told to knock it off and you try to play it cool. Noct isn’t entirely sure what’s got into him. Just walking out in the wilderness with you is calming. _You’re_ calming. He can be quiet with you and you won’t think he’s upset. He can joke with you and you’ll fire a joke back. But what he thinks is  going on right now, in this moment, is that he has you alone. And it’s time to talk. 

“All right?” You murmur, looking straight ahead. You’ve both started walking back to the caravan and you’re already nearly at the safe-haven. When he gives an inflected hum, you dare to tug your sleeve out of his fingers and replace it with your hand. Those slightly trembling fingers curl and twine with yours. So much for finding you calming... 

A beat of silence passes. It’s agony. It’s full of doubt and fear. 

“I need to tell you something.” An echo. You say it in unison and are both totally taken aback. Steps falter before you both come to a halt. You’re at the pit-stop now. Hands are released. All intimacy is gone which actually comes as a bit of relief to two awkward dorks. The sight of the diner and the caravan ground Noct in reality. But you? You’re looking to Choco Jr. and his proximity to you two. 

Your laugh is almost drowned out by the sound of a truck barreling down the road behind you. “Okay, then. You first, Highness.” 

Noct rolls his eyes. “Don’t call me that.” At your raised eyebrows, his cheeks turn pink and he scoffs, “ _You_ first.” 

“Okay? You’re acting a little funny,” you point out nervously. The prince looks like a spooked animal, in fact. Blue eyes are shifty, body is taut with tension, and he seems liable to bolt away from you at any moment. That’s no good. “Why don’t you just say what it is you need to say? What? Aren’t you comfortable with me?” 

“ _Of course_ I’m comfortable with you. You’re always joking around with me with your lame, inappropriate jokes.” Noct smiles, blue eyes observing you closely from beneath dark bangs. He’s trying to gauge your reaction. Any time he brings up those sexual jokes of yours, he gets a glimpse into what you’re thinking. It’s a brief lowering of your defenses. 

“Right.” You fidget with the ends of your sweater, anxious and brow furrowing. “Jokes.” 

It’s the reaction he was hoping for... But not for right now, for what he’s about to say. _Why_ did he say that? He wants to smack himself. Noct rubs the back of his neck and sighs, “We really need to talk.” 

“Then talk,” you insist, exasperated. You’ve just about had it, honestly. Where once you were trying to avoid this conversation like a tax collector, now you want it over with. Because this? It’s just too damn exhausting. It’s emotionally draining to pine after Noct and then double-back on those feelings like they never existed. Something has to give. 

But Noct? Noct tends to keep things buried down, safe and sound. And even though he’s tired of dancing around this as well, he feels a bit more vulnerable. He feels a bit more selfish. Because from where he’s standing, he’s in the easier position and that makes him fear that you think he’s been playing hard to get on purpose. He feels like he’s been playing a game with you. “I like you but, _whoops_ , I’m engaged. Bummer for you.” It feels disrespectful and dishonest. Especially because he wants to tell you that he _can’t_ be with you until he resolves things with Luna. He grew close to you, he flirted with you, he held your hand, and now he’ll tell you _this_. 

A shaky breath is exhaled. There’s a glimmer of eagerness in your eyes that feels like a punch in the gut. “We’ve... been getting closer, right? We’ve spent a lot of time together... got to know each other... But I’ve been thinking that- (y/n), I-” No. Noct freezes and closes his mouth. He doesn’t look at you. He looks _beyond_ you. 

And you just know. You _know_. 

Traffic is amplified. The sound of cars speeding by. It feels like the end of the world has struck in the parking lot of a shitty roadside diner. It’s so damn dramatic. And strangely you find that you want to laugh. You do just that as you brush by the prince and waltz on over to Choco Jr. like you just heard the world’s funniest joke. Noct’s eyebrows knit together and he turns to quickly follow you. “Wait. I- (y/n) I-” 

“You’re engaged. I get that,” you cut him off, pulling your helmet on and digging in your pocket for your keys. “Trust me. I _get_ that. But-” your voice cracks and you hate yourself, “that doesn’t mean I have to be okay with you jerking me around like a damn idiot.” 

“(y/n), wait!” It’s blurted at your back in panic. The situation is way out of hand. All it took was a fumbling of words and a lack of articulation for everything to come undone. Noct was unaware of how fragile the situation was. Unaware of how delicately he needed to handle it. Of course Specs was right all along. Perhaps you shouldn’t have set such a high bar for yourself? In your head you’d played out this exact scenario and you were cool, you bowed out graciously. In your head, you were unshakeable in the face of rejection. But you’re too angry and hurt to think about silly ideals. You almost feel outside of yourself. Like you’re watching some dramatic play. 

When Noct grabs your shoulder you whirl around and have to clench your fists to keep from shoving him away from you. Those blue eyes are so sad. It makes you feel _worse_. He wants to tell you that he has feelings for you and that he just can’t be with you _now_. He selfishly wants to ask you to wait for him. But all he does is grab the sides of your face in his panic and kiss you. It’s too cruel. It’s a fleeting moment. When Noct pulls away, you having not reciprocated in the slightest, he sees tears in your eyes. Your expression is pained, your jaw is clenched on every foul word that you know. Chest heaves to take in a breath and bring you some guidance. His hands fall to his sides. Your lips tremble as you struggle to formulate what you want to say to him. 

“ _Don’t be hateful_ ,” you warn yourself. “ _You’ll regret it if you are_.” 

“I... I want you to know that that was extremely unfair of you.” You feel like you can’t breathe; lungs heavy and throat constricted. Swallowing feels like torture. Your voice wavers. “I need you to know that I have _genuine_ feelings for you, no matter how inappropriate that may be. I just need you to know that, Noctis.” 

Before anything can be said, before anything can be done, you start your moped up and drive away.

* * *

**Prompto**

There’s something about you that’s sad. Watching you is like going through an old photo album. There’s happiness there but it’s tinged with melancholy; it’s right there at the fringes, hanging off of the periphery. It clings on desperately even as the blond cracks jokes, ribs you, holds you tight from out of nowhere. And it seems to double- no _multiply exponentially_ at times when your familiar is around. That strange spirit in the form of an animal. Right now, it’s a flat-faced feline curled up on your lap, tail thumping against your thigh as you flip through your grimoire and sip your coffee. Every now and then you murmur something to the cat and Prompto thinks it smiles. 

He readies his camera. 

It’s always there by your side. Always there to nudge you toward your grimoire and get you researching. Always there to nudge _him_ toward you. It’s like the familiar knows when you’re getting overwhelmed and overworked. And when it detects your fatigue, off it goes to find the blond and drag him toward you. Once, it was a coeurl picking him up by the collar of his shirt and dragging him over to you. Though it nearly gave the poor guy a stroke, Prompto was grateful for the heads up that you were in distress. It’s like the two have become a united front for your well- being. _Even if_ the damn creature likes to turn into things to freak Prom out. 

_Click!_

Two pairs of vivid eyes fixate on him and he blushes. “Uh... You two looked so cute together that I just had to... Well, you know!” He starts off so flustered only to end up _so_ indignant. That tension of his is a palpable thing, though, considering you two are alone. It’s a rare period of  downtime that everyone takes advantage of in their own way. 

Though free time is certainly a rarity- something to covet- a routine has already been established. You’re all supposed to spend quality time _together_. Except... you all spend _every waking moment_ together. Everyone is on everyone else’s last damn nerve. So that established routine? It’s torn up and tossed in the trash like a newspaper with yet another imperial-grade propaganda piece on the cover. The caravan in northern Alstor quickly grew cramped with tension and conflict. Accidental bumps of an elbow were seen as personal affronts and a careless glance held a litany of projected feelings. The others dispersed, leaving you alone in the caravan; daemon on your lap, grimoire in hand, and sipping Iggy’s wonderful coffee. 

And Prompto, after a few minutes of fresh air and photographs, just _couldn’t_ stay away. Like he was an extra accidentally walking on set, the blond had cracked open the door and blue eyes peeked in at you, sat in the small breakfast nook. After you waved him in, he took to leaning against the counter across from you and fiddling with his camera in awkward silence. You’ve no idea _why_ he’s being so quiet. Usually he’s a chatterbox. 

The cat on your lap purrs, teasing jokes about a blond’s obvious fondness for you hissed in the air. Eyes roll at that and it takes Prompto too long to realize you’re reacting to something your alleged familiar is saying and _not_ making that face _at him_. He purses his lips and huffs, “What? It’s a compliment.” 

“That I’m your muse?” You joke, snapping your grimoire shut when it begins to become apparent that the teasing won’t end. The tawny cat is picked up and dropped on the kitchen bench beside you as punishment. Coffee is downed in one long pull and you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. 

Lately, you’ve sorta been full of energy. If you ignore the fact that you’re lying by omission with everyone, that you lost your home and your only family, this is a weirdly high point in your life. Mood-wise, for sure. Comfort is drawn from your friends and from the daemon. You get love from your friends and a guiding force from the daemon. It’s as if the strange, yellow- eyed creature has made it its life goal to make sure you’re content and you’re broadening your knowledge on the arcane arts. It’s almost suspiciously knowledgeable. It’s the best damn teacher you’ve ever had. With the daemon by your side, you aren’t nervous. Confidence grows and you open up more with the others as a result. 

The transition in you is obvious to Prompto. Yeah, you still go all secretive and mysterious, but you’re back to that witty, haughty mage he fell head over heels for. Except now you’re a bit more... forward? He’s unaware that the daemon is wing-manning the hell out of you. That it has taken up the mantle of life coach when you aren’t calling or texting Drusa. Still, that melancholic aura is something formidable. It’s permeated the air around you since the two of you first met. It’s like you’ve been preparing to tell him goodbye since the moment you said hello. But it’s staved off- can be forgotten as easily as it becomes salient in his mind. All it takes is you flashing him that wicked grin. Like you do now. 

“If you’re going to insist on talking my ear off, let’s make today another date,” you suggest, grin evil and eyes even eviler when the contempt on his face is replaced by a shy eagerness. Gods, it’s murder to resist the urge to pinch his freckled cheeks. Especially when he tries to coolly lean against the wall across from you and nails his funny bone on the edge of the kitchen counter. 

“A-Another date?” Prom finally manages to ask, tears in his eyes and hand gripping his poor arm. 

“Uh-huh. Don’t get too excited, though. The last magazine I read said the _real_ fun happens on date three. So, like, we’ll commit a crime together.” Blue eyes watch your index finger slowly trace the rim of your empty mug. “The ultimate form of coupling.” 

That’s it. You’ve killed him. Coupling? Really? Oh, you know there’s a _laundry list_ of other words you could’ve used to describe growing closer. Ones _without_ sexual undertones. But any innuendo, anything even remotely sexual, garners the best reactions out of the blond. In all the months you’ve known each other, this has become one of your favorite pastimes. Are you a perv? 

“ _No? Maybe..._ ” 

It’s more of a situational type of thing. Sure, you were a little hellion back in the Spire but you never made any sort of sexual advances toward anyone. There were some attractive mages, of course, but there was always a strange power dynamic in play that made things feel a bit... gross. As the child of the family in charge, you just felt like you had too much weight behind your name. _That_ and a bunch of mages your age hated you anyway, _so_... You weren’t about to get naked with someone who was liable to smother you with a pillow or hold the tryst over your head as blackmail. Is it sad that you were way too damn paranoid to be a stereotypical horny teenager? But now? With Prompto? After he got over his initial starstruck reaction with you? Six, save you both. 

What makes him so evil is that he has the perfect personality to you. There were no Prompto Argentums in the Spire to prepare you for him. So his adorable dorkiness, his tenacious spirit and good heart hit you like a truck barreling down the highway. And after you befriended him and got to spend quality time with him, you’ve got it bad for him. All of your flirtation, all of your innuendo begs for him to _do something_. You aren’t nearly as aloof as he thinks you are. You aren’t nearly as cool as he thinks you are. But you’re in a tricky spot. Because you don’t know how these things go. Though you’ve spent loads of quality time together, all social conventions state that you need to “officially date” for things to progress romantically. 

Drusa didn’t know how to handle her adopted child struggling to come to terms with wanting to romance their best friend. Knowing you so well, she couldn’t formulate a response that _wouldn’t_ make you shut down and back off- pushing the issue aside altogether, letting a potentially healthy and mature relationship blow away in the wind. However, before your unofficial stepmother graciously bowed out to let you resolve the issue in your own way, she left you with a bit of advice: “You won’t ever know if what you’re feeling is mutual if you don’t gather the nerve to ask for yourself. And if it isn’t? Well, there’s no law against remaining friends. Clearly, you love him. It isn’t just infatuation or lust so it won’t just go away.” 

That part about it not just going away made you feel even worse at first, though. It would be comforting to know that if you get rejected those feelings can just go away over time instead of you being stuck with ‘em. But if it’s love for Prompto? Of wanting him to be healthy and happy? You find that you can live with that even if it’s only just that. Then you got a text: 

_Btw, I’m not dumb. I knew what you were getting at, honey. There’s also no law against having sex if you’ve already got to that point w/o dates. Dates are for people with time! Be safe!!! :)))_

And you were simultaneously grateful and wishing for death. You texted back indignantly: 

_WE’VE HAD ONE DATE!!!_

Her response was a simple: 

_lol!_

Suddenly you’re ripped out of your musings. The daemon cackles at Prompto’s reaction, “He’s a smitten kitten.” You praise the Six that Prompto can’t hear the little wretch’s commentary and you _really_ have to fight back the urge to groan so damn loud at that awful joke. Finger flicks the cat’s  ear and it gives a pathetic “mrow” in response. 

“So, would you do me the honor of keeping me company today, darling?” You ask once you realize Prompto has been dead silent the whole time, mouth agape and eyes as wide as saucers. That’s the thing about you. He doesn’t know if you were always so secretly suave or if love makes him susceptible to your strange wiles. But every now and then you talk like you’re straight out of a film- like it’s all perfectly scripted and acted out to knock the air out of his lungs and have him buzzing all over. He struggles to be just as cool as you. 

“After this date, you say we’ll be committing crimes together?” 

You shrug. “Something of that nature.” 

Fingers fiddle with his camera, tug at the strap and wipe away imaginary dust. “Well, according to the Empire, we’re already committing crimes. Maybe we can do something else instead? Find a different way to, uh, couple?” All the air leaves the room at once. The cat is stock still, slightly in awe of the blond’s guts and how he managed to pull that suggestion off in an endearing way rather than smarmy. Blue eyes watch you from beneath pale lashes. Freckled cheeks slowly begin to warm up; going strawberry milk pink to candy apple red. Then the spell is broken by the cat hopping off of the bench and waltzing to the bedroom. 

Throat is cleared and you snark, “That’s awfully saucy of you.”  


“Saucy?” He laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Gods, he’s _so_ relieved! For a moment he  thought you might turn him into a fireball for even suggesting _that_.  


Embarrassment begins to warm your neck at his gentle teasing and you snap, “Listen, I only had  coffee this morning so I’m hungry. I can only think of words that sound like foods.” 

“Okay. Then we’ll start the day off with food at the Crow’s Nest. Then...” he taps his chin, “Oh! How about a photo-op with the catoblepas!” 

“Do you think my memory is that short? Just the other day Noct was whining about how you almost got him killed for that very same photo-op. Sure, he looked cute in that picture but I’d rather not get turned into a pancake.” 

Prom pouts and huffs, “Fine, fine.” Here he was, getting all excited at the idea of doing a photoshoot with you... an opportunity to kinda subtly order you around... Anyway, it wasn’t _his_ fault that Noct apparently smells really appealing! More appealing than bait, for that matter! The blond queries, “Well, what do you wanna do?” 

“First, let’s talk over lunch.” 

The usual fare is offered at the diner. However, you’re left yearning for Takka’s hospitality and timid nature. It also takes some smooth talking to get the proprietor to make a milkshake (“We don’t have an ice-cream machine...” “Don’t worry. I can help!”) to complement the burgers you and Prom have. Sadly, there’s only one milkshake as a consequence. The vibrant red-and-white striped straw rests on Prompto’s lower lip, he even taps his lip with it as he muses, “If I were to have the perfect date, it would be...” blue eyes glint mischievously, “hunting for plants in the Nebulawood.” 

You glance up from your decimated burger to point out, “Prom. We already did tha-” noticing his devious little smirk, you flush and clear your throat. “Oh.” 

“Heh. Yeah. I never got to actually thank you for that. I, um, I had a really fun time with you.” 

“Good. I had fun, too.” The diner suddenly seems even smaller than it really is with that awkward yet flirty blond sitting across from you; tapping his fingers against the milkshake, occasionally rubbing the back of his neck until you can’t take it any longer. “Fine. We’ll do your thing today. Photoshoot it is.” 

“Awesome! I promise, it’ll just be with the creatures in the background. It’ll be scenic and totally _not_ dangerous.” 

“It better not be. I don’t want to have to make those things go extinct,” you grumble, swiping the milkshake from him and taking a drink for yourself. But then... Cheeks warm up when you take a sip from the straw. Wait... What’s going on? Oh, _no_. You aren’t seriously getting all heated over the idea of sharing a straw, are you? _He’s_ supposed to be the lame one in this dynamic! Not _you_! For someone who is so awkward that it should be considered a crime against humanity, Prompto catches on to what your deal is in an instant. He sniffs it out like a bloodhound. And he’d be lying if he said he totally wasn’t screaming on the inside. Because he is. Loudly. Especially when you clear your throat in that dignified way of yours and push the milkshake back toward him, eyes downcast. 

He’s starting to think he _might_ actually have a shot of making a move on you... With this in mind, he can’t get you out of the diner fast enough. It’s with the blond’s urgings that you hastily slide out of the red pleather booth. “Choco Jr. isn’t all that great with off-road travel. I can call for Sunny,” you suggest once you’re out in the fresh air. Wow. To not be in a grease smog? Too bad your sweater already reeks of fried food. 

“Sunny?” The biggest cockblock on Eos? Any time Prom has gone to surprise hug you or hold your hand, all he hears are hurried, pounding footfalls and he’s sent sprawling on the ground with the damn chocobo standing over him, wings spread and blue eyes blazing. Prompto chokes back an aggravated scoff. “Nah. We’ll just walk. It’ll be nice.” 

“If you insist.” 

And because he was just thinking about how restricted his movements are around Apricus, Prompto boldly grabs your hand and laces his fingers through yours. All the way back at Wiz’s, Sunny lifts his head from his food trough and glares.  Despite the pleasantly warm weather with the sun nice and high in the sky, a chill runs down Prompto’s spine and he isn't sure why... 

Holding hands isn’t exactly practical, though. The terrain is rocky and you have to walk down a steep incline to get down into the valley with the catoblepas. Twice Prompto nearly falls and takes you with him. If it weren’t for your quick reflexes, the two of you would be all banged up. Still, you cling to each other, sweaty palms and all.  Sweater is dusted off and shirt is rearranged as Prompto gets his camera ready. Standing at the water’s edge, you can smell the distinct odor of algae and mud... along with catoblepas stink. _So_ romantic. But you aren’t about to start complaining ‘cause Prom looks excited. Whenever he tries to take pictures of you on your own, you cover your face like you’re a celebrity and he’s the paparazzi. 

_Click!_

Head whips around and you scowl at the blond. “We’re starting already? You could’ve told me.” 

“Heh... ah...” the blond is staring at the screen, a grin on his face, “Candids are always better. But okay, I’ll tell you. We’re starting now.” 

You roll your eyes. “Could do without the ‘tude. Anyway, just tell me what to do. You have permission to boss me around.” 

Cornflower blue eyes glint and he smirks and... that simple expression goes straight to questionable places, making your heart skip a beat and your blood buzz. Hell, it’s just a _look_! Internally, you smack yourself around and tell yourself to get it the hell together. You’re a bit unaware that the two of you have both already reached your limit of dancing around this. “Okay, (y/n),” Prompto murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he cocks his head to survey you and the scenery carefully, “the lighting here is perfect but I’m gonna need you to turn your body two-thirds away from me, to your right. Yeah, like that. Now- Yeah! Perfect.” 

_Click! Click! Click!_

This goes on for a bit longer with Prom occasionally having to reprimand you for looking over your shoulder. “I’m just checking to make sure they’re still far enough away!” 

“I’ve got your back, don’t worry.” Prom makes sure he has the camera in front of his face when he orders, “Now get on your knees.” 

“What?” When he doesn’t immediately respond, you smother a blush and snap, “Like hell I will. There’s mud!” You gesture quite aggressively at your feet to prove your point. There are already splatters of dark mud on your nice boots and besides, you... well... _he_...! What the heck kind of thing is that for him to say to you?! 

“Then come closer, _away_ from the mud, and get on your knees.” It’s said almost patronizingly, a teasing lilt in his voice that has you feeling indignant and aroused. Jaw clenches at his response, at how it makes you feel, and at how you aren’t exactly mad about it. Your face feels hot, something you struggle to ignore as you stomp over to him and drop to your knees. Eye contact? Yeah, that’s not gonna happen right now. Breathing is evened out and you pretend that there aren’t any undertones to this interaction. It’s just a photoshoot and you’re subject to Prompto’s will since he’s the creative spirit. But, boy, if you aren’t so embarrassed that your ears feel scorching hot. Especially when this prone position is maintained with no reaction from the blond. 

“Well?” You gripe, still staring off at nothing and pretending this is all a hallucination, “What are you waiting for?” 

“Look at me.” Fingers dig into your thighs a moment before you release your grip and turn your head. Wicked eyes find Prompto’s blue ones, chin raised defiantly. He marvels at how you somehow manage to look so superior even posed like this. It must be one of your many talents. His eyes are dark and they hold yours. His finger finds the shutter release. 

_Click!_

“You didn’t even check to see if you framed the shot right,” you point out flatly, expression bored. You’re doing a wonderful job coming off unaffected right now even as you’re screaming on the inside. Prompto merely gives you a hum of acknowledgement as he takes a few more shots, allowing you to look wherever you please. 

Camera rests against his chest and the blond announces, “Okay, we’re done. You’re a great model, (y/n), thanks.” 

Eyes snap up to meet his. He’s acting awfully cool for the little stunt he just pulled; the stunt you allowed him to get away with. And that? That won’t do. Not if you want to try and maintain the upper-hand in this weird relationship. “That better not be used for recreational purposes,” you scold, grunting as you stand up, knees aching. 

“What?” Now the tables are turned once more; the two of you easily handing over control to the other when it suits you. You’ll quickly find that this is how the dynamic works best. Prompto has  a strange desire to order you around that you are all too happy to fulfill and vice versa. Today is a bit of an insight into that. Today was a testing of boundaries. How far can he push you before you push back? 

“I mean I’d better not walk in on you using those photos for personal needs,” you explain, completely unabashed now that you have the power. The sleeves of your sweater are adjusted rather unnecessarily, a look is shot his way beneath those lashes of yours. _Of course_ it’s the look that keeps him up at night. He knew you knew it was his weakness! 

With cherry-red cheeks the blond sputters, “Th-That’s-! No! I _wouldn’t_! Not without your per-!” He stops himself by choking on his own words. Oh, gods. He almost asked for your permission to use your image to- Prompto covers his face with his hands and turns away. Teeth capture your bottom lip. It’s almost painful to keep from laughing. 

Walking up behind the blond, you rest your chin on his shoulder, feeling him tense up. Grin wide and unashamed, you drawl, “Permission granted.” 

And that’s how you killed Prompto Argentum on your second date. 

“Y-You wanna make out?”  


And that’s how Prompto Argentum killed you on your second date. 

Chin remains on his shoulder. Grin remains on your face. You’re frozen at the sound of that squeaked out question. The sharpshooter’s body heat becomes apparent to you as does his ashamed expression when you take too long to respond. This has you wrapping your arms around his waist and turning him around to face you. “W-Wait a sec!” Prompto wriggles in your arms and you let go. He can’t seem to decide what he wants, because he whines at the loss of contact and grabs your arm with one hand as he digs in his pocket with the other. As your arm is insistently tugged back toward his waist, he yanks something out of his pocket and then he's furiously applying lip balm. 

A loud laugh escapes you at that. “You dork!” You tease.  


Blue eyes turn to slits in a fake glare. “This has to be perfect, okay?!” 

Prompto’s lightheartedness makes things so much easier. It’s what has you brushing his hand away from his face and closing the distance between you two. His lips are greasy from that damn lip balm but you ignore it. He’s warm and the sweetness of the milkshake still lingers there. When he puts his hand on the back of your neck to deepen the kiss, the camera digs into your chest. “Ow!” 

“Oh! Shit! Sorry!” Prompto yelps, lifting the strap over his head and attempting to pull his camera off when you wave him away. 

“No, it’s fine,” you sigh, a bit dizzy from that brief lip-lock. “Um... we should head back.” 

“Y-You sure?” There’s obvious disappointment on his face for a second before he snuffs it out, camera hanging by his side. Fingers drum against the side of your leg as you stall. Heart still beats erratically, lips still buzz. Ooh, you’re really thinking about it. This would be a nice note to end things on- a sweet kiss to finish off the date. But you’re eager for more, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, and Prompto _did_ say “make out” and not simply “kiss,” _so..._

All Prompto sees is an evil grin before you grab the front of his shirt and yank him toward you. There’s an accidental click of teeth and then you’re opening your mouth to him. His free hand squeezes your waist, squeezes more of you when that gets a delicious moan from you. Fingers  thread through his hair and pull. _Gods_ , he learns to absolutely love and eagerly wait for that evil grin of yours.

* * *

**Ignis**

There are inside jokes at your expense. They’re met with a flash of light off of lenses and a green- eyed glare. Those jokes say that you act as if you’ve been married to Ignis Scientia for fifty years. Where once, in the beginning, you were tense around the tactician, now you’re far too familiar. You know each other’s routines. You’ve grown bold. Resting a hand on the brunet’s shoulder when he’s tense or steeling your nerves and brushing the back of your hand against his. And when no one is behind you, he’ll gently rest his hand on the small of your back as you walk side by side. All subtle gestures. A squeeze of a knee beneath a table. 

The one thing you two haven’t had is some time alone. It seems an impossible thing to obtain and maybe even a bit foolish to wish for. But ever since that invigorating stroll in the woods, the two of you have yearned for it more and more. Ever since that musical nightmare in the car, the two of you have burned for it more and more. That hand on your knee begins to linger for a second too long. That hand on your knee slowly glides up; green eyes watching your chest still, hearing the faint hitch of your breath, seeing your eyelids flutter, teeth biting down on your lip... But there’s always an audience. And now, with your familiar? There’s always a running commentary. 

Thank the gods that _Ignis_ doesn’t know that. He might die of shame. As it stands, he’s a bit perturbed by that strange spirit in the form of an animal. Right now, it’s a flat-faced feline curled up on your lap, tail thumping against your thigh as you flip through your grimoire and sip your coffee. Every now and then you murmur something to the cat and Ignis watches it huff. The brunet rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows as he watches the two of you. It’s always there by your side. Always there to nudge you toward your grimoire and get you researching. Always there to nudge _him_ toward you. It’s like the familiar knows when you’re getting overwhelmed and overworked. 

And when it detects your fatigue, off it goes to bother the tactician. Well, “bother” isn’t the correct word. Ignis certainly doesn’t see a warning that you’re in need of his aid as a “bother.” It’s just  that the familiar’s methods of getting his attention leave a lot of be desired. A coeurl swiping dishes off of the table with a giant paw? A behemoth barreling through the desert toward him and coming to a halt mere inches before him? At least Ignis can say the familiar shares your flare for drama. And about “drama”? Well, the besotted bespectacled brunet is hoping that he can stir something up with you today. This hope has him politely clearing his throat and pondering, “About that dessert...?” 

Two pairs of vivid eyes fixate on him. The cat on your lap hunkers down a bit and you rub your thumb between its big eyes, earning yourself a rattling purr from the smooshy-faced feline. Your eyebrows rise up and you wonder, “What dessert?” 

Lips quirk in response. “What dessert, indeed. On our first night together, you said you would make dessert. You stood beside me as I made rice balls and said as much.” Ignis watches as realization dawns on you. “Would you mind making something now?” 

Confused, you look about the small caravan as if you’re seeing it for the first time. Might as well be, honestly. When you read that grimoire it’s like you’re in your own little world- you hadn’t even realized that it’s just you, Iggy, and the daemon. It’s a rare period of downtime that everyone takes advantage of in their own way. And Ignis Scientia is definitely trying to maximize this time with you in _his_ own way. 

Though free time is certainly a rarity- something to covet- a routine has already been established. You’re all supposed to spend quality time _together_. Except... you all spend _every waking moment_ together. Everyone is on everyone else’s last damn nerve. So that established routine? It’s torn up and tossed in the trash like a newspaper with yet another imperial-grade propaganda piece on the cover. The caravan in northern Alstor quickly grew cramped with tension and conflict. Accidental bumps of an elbow were seen as personal affronts and a careless glance held a litany of projected feelings. The others dispersed, leaving you alone in the caravan; daemon on your lap, grimoire in hand, and sipping Iggy’s wonderful coffee. 

And Ignis, after having a serious chat with Noctis and Gladiolus about Gladio’s sudden trip, realized another key advisor was missing and went off in search of the resident hermit. Predictably, you were still nestled comfortably in the caravan. The tactician addressed your taciturn self sat in the small breakfast nook and informed you of Gladio’s leave of absence. It was something you barely paid attention to, much to Ignis’ irritation. You said, “Huh, okay then. Good thing Noct still has us,” and that was all. Nose was shoved right back into that grimoire. But now he has your full attention. Just how he likes it. 

You blink owlishly a few times before closing your book and setting it down beside you. The daemon takes that as its cue to leave, a few gentle teases purred in the air before it sashays over to the door and waits patiently for Ignis to let it outside. Once it’s gone, you answer, “Of course. I saw you picked up some Duscaen oranges yesterday. I know a recipe for Duscaen Sunrise Cake that the cooks taught me back at the Spire.” 

“That sounds lovely.” And he means it despite shooting you that teasing smile he always has reserved for you; the one that makes his eyes glimmer from beneath his eyelashes. It’s a play on the sultry look you always give him. But while your manipulative move only has about a 45% hit rate, Ignis Scientia’s is 100% effective against mages. It’s how you _know_ there’s going to be trouble today. Hands fumble with the flour and eggs that Ignis stocked the caravan’s tiny kitchen with. The brunet sits in the kitchen nook with a sly smile on his face and simply watches his favorite mage bustle around. Not allowing him to get in your head is nearly impossible. A bit of sugar falls on the floor and he gives a disapproving hum. 

“ _This sneaky bastard..._ ” you think angrily yet that hum has you biting your lip and smiling. 

Lately, you’ve sorta been full of energy. If you ignore the fact that you’re lying by omission with everyone, that you lost your home and your only family, this is a weirdly high point in your life. Mood-wise, for sure. Comfort is drawn from your friends and from the daemon. You get love from your friends and a guiding force from the daemon. It’s as if the strange, yellow- eyed creature has made it its life goal to make sure you’re content and you’re broadening your knowledge on the arcane arts. It’s almost suspiciously knowledgeable. It’s the best damn teacher you’ve ever had. With the daemon by your side, you aren’t nervous. Confidence grows and you open up more with the others as a result. 

The transition in you is obvious to Ignis. _Every_ subtle change in you is obvious to him, the Mage Whisperer. Though you’re still secretive, you seem a bit lighter somehow as he watches you move about the kitchen like you’re dancing. He’s unaware that the daemon is wing-manning the hell out of you. That it has taken up the mantle of life coach when you aren’t calling or texting Drusa. 

“Are you putting on a show for me, Iovita?” Ignis suddenly queries and you freeze in the middle of slicing an orange. Fingers are sticky from juice, that citric tang in the air. The knife is put down and you turn to look at Iggy over your shoulder and then freeze all over again, snark stuck in your throat. Those long legs of his are crossed elegantly, one elbow resting on the table beside him and his chin resting on his fist. Green eyes are attentive and simmering. Lips curl into a smirk. 

“No!” You finally snap, sounding highly defensive. Then you’re back to stiffly cutting the orange. Except now you glare at it like it owes you money and you’re sweating bullets. There’s a tremor in your hands that can’t be overcome. You want to hit him with the type of innuendo that’s sure to shut him up but just can’t find the strength to do so. Not with how he looks at you right now. It’s more of a situational type of thing, anyway. Your flirtation and innuendo, I mean. 

Sure, you were a little hellion back in the Spire but you never made any sort of sexual advances toward _anyone_. There were some attractive mages, of course, but there was always a strange power dynamic in play that made things feel a bit... gross. As the child of the family in charge, you just felt like you had too much weight behind your name. _That_ and a bunch of mages your age hated you anyway, _so_... You weren’t about to get naked with someone who was liable to smother you with a pillow or hold the tryst over your head as blackmail. Is it sad that you were way too damn paranoid to be a stereotypical horny teenager? But now? With Ignis? Quite possibly the most interesting and exciting man you’ve ever met? Six, save you both. 

What makes him so devious is that he keeps you on your toes. So accustomed to working people, such a charmer with a defunct social battery, you were thrown off-kilter by Ignis Scientia. You can’t work him. And after you befriended him and spent time with him, you’ve got it _bad_ for him. And Ignis? He _lets you_ work him now. It’s his way of showing he’s got it bad for you, too. Honestly? He hadn’t expected that. He found you charming, for a certainty, but he hadn’t expected to find himself so drawn to you; seeking out your company even if it’s just sitting near each other and reading, subconsciously making your favorite meals a few nights in a row until Noct calls him out on it, and making suggestive gestures that he never in a million years thought he’d _ever_ do. 

But you bring it out in him. That teasing spirit. And your shocked expressions encourage that bad behavior of his. The way those wicked eyes darken spur him on to be even more brazen even though he blushes and agonizes over it after. That embarrassment is quickly surmounted by how you eagerly reciprocate. All of your flirtation begs for him to _do something_ and vice versa. You two aren’t nearly as aloof as the other thinks. You two aren’t nearly as cool as the other thinks. But you’re in a tricky spot. Because you don’t know how these things go. Though you’ve spent loads of quality time together, all social conventions state that you need to “officially date” for things to progress romantically. 

Drusa didn’t know how to handle her adopted child struggling to come to terms with wanting to romance their best friend and fellow advisor. Knowing you so well, she couldn’t formulate a response that _wouldn’t_ make you shut down and back off- pushing the issue aside altogether, letting a potentially healthy and mature relationship blow away in the wind. However, before your unofficial stepmother graciously bowed out to let you resolve the issue in your own way, she left you with a bit of advice: “You won’t ever know if what you’re feeling is mutual if you don’t gather the nerve to ask for yourself. And if it isn’t? Well, there’s no law against remaining friends. Clearly, you love him. It isn’t just infatuation or lust so it won’t just go away.” 

That part about it not just going away made you feel even worse at first, though. It would be comforting to know that if you get rejected those feelings can just go away over time instead of you being stuck with ‘em. But if it’s love for Ignis? Of wanting him to be healthy and happy? You find that you can live with that even if it’s only just that. Then you got a text: 

_Btw, I’m not dumb. I knew what you were getting at, honey. There’s also no law against having sex if you’ve already got to that point w/o dates. Dates are for people with time! Be safe!!! :)))_

And you were simultaneously grateful and wishing for death. You texted back indignantly: 

_It’s not like that!_

Her response was: 

_Uh-huh. Cuz I also lick my fingers while maintaining too much eye contact. I still wish I hadn’t asked you to tell me exactly what he did lmbo!_

Sometimes, you still believe that you actually died after you got that text. Suddenly you’re ripped out of your musings by yet another judgmental statement from the bespectacled brunet whom you’ve learned to love to hate when it comes to his micromanaging behavior over menial activities. Thanks to Iggy, you’ve learned that you’ve never brewed a proper cup of tea in your _life_. “What are you doing?” Asks that haughty voice so suddenly. 

That tone brings a sneer to your face and makes you shake your head and cluck your tongue. Eyes are hooded in bitter resignation as you continue to squeeze the juice from the oranges. It’s tedious work but not difficult. Ignis’ _commentary_ , however, is what makes it difficult. And he knows it. Of course he does. It’s his favorite way to tease that easily irritated mage. “Baking a cake?” You drawl, adding a hint of an inflection to make it a sarcastic question. This is your game: The critical strategist and the defiant mage. He’ll try to get you to fall in line through any means necessary and you’ll push back. You can barely see him move in the reflection of the window above the kitchen sink. He comes to stand behind you. 

“Are you?” Ignis asks rhetorically. Breath hits the back of your neck and you barely refrain from freezing up. Keen green eyes see your hands falter for a split-second before you continue on as if you’re completely indifferent to his close proximity. Your scent mixes with the sweet smell of oranges. “You keep adding flour as if you didn’t measure it.” 

“I _didn’t_ measure it,” you admit, shoulders popping up in a careless shrug. “This method is called ‘eyeballing,’ Iggs.” 

A positively scandalized scoff is your reward for such a ridiculous statement. That burst of air makes you square your shoulders instinctively. “Eyeballing? (y/n), honestly. Do you even _have_ a recipe?” 

“I memorized it, if you must know.” 

There’s that dissatisfied hum again to set your teeth on edge. “Well, I suppose we can do without dessert for today.” 

“Damn, Scientia. You ask me to make you a cake just to drag me up and down this kitchen?” You snap, nearly sending an orange slice shooting out of your hands and into the sink when you squeeze it too hard in your frustration. You play right into Ignis Scientia’s clever hands, though. ‘Cause there you go, getting all riled up. The mage’s cool head is gone. 

“You’re lucky it’s a small kitchen.” 

You stare at his reflection in the window for a century, at those quirked lips and hooded eyes. He’s so close to you. Green eyes glimmer at the sight of that unamused expression on your face. “Just... Just let me make this cake,” you sigh in defeat, going back to staring at squeezed oranges like they’re infinitely fascinating. 

"You have a bit of flour there," Ignis suddenly says vaguely, pointing at your face as he moves to stand beside you, hips leaning against the counter. 

"That's helpful," you snark. "The least you can do is-" you cut yourself off when he reaches toward you and ghosts his thumb over your right cheekbone. It feels like your skin burns from his touch and you look away, determined to carry on as usual, pouring the juice into the batter. His eyes are on you. You can feel the heat from his gaze. 

"(y/n)." 

You pause your movements, eyes fixed on the pale orange color of the lumpy batter. A note is made to yourself that you need to mix it more thoroughly before you put it in a pan and bake it, lest you end up on the receiving end of one of Ignis Scientia’s pointed looks. "Mmhm?" Your voice comes out absurdly high and you want to punch yourself. 

"You know I'm fond of you, don't you?" He makes a confession of feelings sound so damn easy even as his heart pounds heavily in his chest. Green eyes are all over your face, searching for any sign of rejection in that aloof mage’s stoic expression. Damn you and your ability to wear masks so effortlessly. 

A breathy chuckle. "Well, I suppose..."  


"May I be so bold as to ask if you're fond of me?" 

The two of you stand in tense silence. It’s at this moment that you become fascinated by the kitchen. The neutral beige linoleum on the counter and the foggy metal of the sink. Wallpaper peels away around the window frame. Outside, you see that caramel-colored cat sitting out on the hood of the Regalia, sunning. Golden eyes meet yours and it winks. Snapping back into reality, you stammer at the sight of vulnerability in those emerald eyes, "I... Uh, well, I thought that much was obvious. I could be doing _so_ many more productive things with my time and yet here I am, baking a cake for your ungrateful self,” you tease, heart somewhere in your throat. It’s a miracle you don’t word-vomit. 

A genuine smile graces Ignis’ face. "Hm, I suspected as much but I could only hope you’d suffer through such an ordeal for me and not because you had nothing else to do.” Heat enters that smile, turns his gaze into something molten as he reaches up once more and runs his thumb just below your bottom lip. "How deep does your affection go, I wonder?” 

"What?" You laugh until you see the darkness in his eyes. All thoughts of kidding around are tossed away. The feeling of his thumb below your lip is clouding your mind. It makes it difficult to  form a coherent sentence. As a consequence, you blurt out, to your horror, “Pretty, um, pretty deep." 

"Is that so?" 

"Center of the world deep..." Your eyelids flutter when he pulls you close, one hand on the small of your back, the other cupping your jaw. 

Ignis chuckles, bringing his lips close to yours so you feel the inviting warmth of his breath. "That deep?" His hand glides from your jaw to move up and back to grip your hair. It's a gentle grip but you find yourself gasping softly anyway. That gasp? Even though it’s barely even audible, Ignis Scientia is going to remember it for all eternity. 

"Yes," you whisper. There's some double entendre that he's fooling around with and you know it. But gods if you want him to stop being coy. And then he releases you and goes back to sitting at the table. You stand there, stunned. He watches, thoroughly amused. That sneaky son of a bitch. Brooding now, you whirl back around and violently make a damn cake. 

When you have the batter ready, Ignis finally speaks again and your eyes roll into the back of your head. “There’s something to be said about your inability to follow orders. It’s a bad habit that seems to bleed into all aspects of your life. Fighting and cooking... Has it spread anywhere else?” 

Eyes roll even harder. “Leave me and my cake alone. It tastes _fine_ , I’m sure.” 

The brunet seems to be making a habit of moving back and forth between the kitchen counter and the little table. Because there he is, standing up once more to glide on over to your poor self. A tortured sigh escapes you when he casually leans against the counter beside you and gives the cake batter a disdainful look. Expression deadly, you extend a batter-covered spoon to him. One slender finger dips into the batter. With his eyes on you, Ignis brings his finger to his mouth and licks the batter off. An indifferent hum. That digit swipes over the spoon once more to collect more batter. Ignis extends that batter-covered finger to you. “Try for yourself.” When you move to take the batter off with your own finger, he pulls out of your reach. “Ah-ah. No. Not like that.” 

“What?” You guffaw but he’s dead serious. “ _Ignis_...” It’s meant to be indignant but it comes out as a needy whine that darkens his eyes. Breath catches in your throat when he extends his finger to you once more. Bottom lip trembles before you bite down on it. Cheeks heat up and warmth spreads between your thighs. Haltingly, you step forward and his finger comes to rest on your bottom lip. Green eyes burn into yours. Mouth slowly opens, tongue tentatively darts out, and Ignis slides his finger in. The tang of citrus is subtle but easily overpowers the slightly salty and soapy taste of Ignis’ skin. Eyelids flutter shut, tongue swirls around his finger, and you suck. 

After a moment, when you’ve got all the batter off, Ignis pulls his finger from your mouth with a wet _pop!_ and gives you a soft hum of approval. Blood is buzzing in your veins at this point. You’re feeling lightheaded even as you numbly turn back to the bowl of batter and pour it into the pan. With shaky hands, you put it in the preheated oven. There’s a long pause before you finally muster up the courage to look Ignis in the eye once more and drawl, “See? I can follow instructions.” 

“Yes. I daresay you did quite well.” His cheeks are pink. You’ll find he does this often. Grows bold and then becomes shy once everything is said and done. But that boldness? It thrills you. And Ignis Scientia sees that it thrills you. It’s what makes him put on that front again and again: For your viewing pleasure. And he can’t say he isn’t aroused by the defiant mage taking his orders every now and then. 

You clear your throat. “Any other instructions you want me to follow, Scientia?” 

A checklist appears in Ignis Scientia’s mind. Door? Locked and he and the owner of the caravan are the only ones with a key. Guys? Busy until the evening. Protection? Ever since you started reciprocating his brazen flirtations, he bought condoms and lube just to be properly prepared and on the safe side. He’s unaware that you did the same weeks ago. “Why, as a matter of fact, Iovita, there are.” Eyes watch hungrily as he begins to unbutton his shirt. He takes his time, acting as though each button is liable to pop off if he tugs on them even a little bit. It’s incredibly frustrating. When the brunet realizes that you’re staring, he quirks one elegant eyebrow at you and queries, “Well? Undress.” 

Muscles freeze for a moment before you begin to unbutton your shirt, taking your time as well. But you draw it out even more just to get under his skin. Hands linger in strategic places, fingers grazing over a nipple, “accidentally” touching yourself when you shimmy out of your underwear. And Ignis certainly enjoys your little show if his straining erection is any indication. Naked in the kitchen, you’re about to suggest that the two of you move to the bedroom where it’s more sanitary and there isn’t a window for one of you to accidentally walk in front of when Ignis commands, “Get on your knees.” 

Should you feel ashamed by just how damn fast you drop to your knees? Well, as Ignis struts on over to you you’re feeling a lot of things and shame isn’t one of them. The brunet almost seems unbothered by his nudity; cool and collected. But you two? You’re wonderful actors putting on such a captivating show for each other. 

“Keep your hands on your knees and don’t move.” Agile fingers wrap around his cock and you stop breathing. He gives himself two slow and rather unnecessary strokes, fondles his balls, parts his lips ever so slightly, and it isn’t even the start of how he’s going to torture you. He teases you. Glides the tip of his cock over your mouth, leaving a trail of pre-cum on your bottom lip. When you instinctively part your lips, he pulls away. A disapproving frown is shot down at you. The tactician shakes his head and tuts, “Now, what did I say? Don’t move.” 

Okay. You hate this now. It was fun at first. But this? It’s murder. This should be considered a crime punishable by death. Yet you don’t object. You keep your mouth shut and learn to savor those hums of approval from the bespectacled brunet. You quickly learn to follow his orders right down to the letter because it’s all worth it in the end. The head of his cock is replaced on your mouth once more and you remain still. He strokes himself like this, emerald eyes fixated on you. Jaw clenches and you take in a soft breath, smelling the natural musk of his skin and the faint traces of his crisp cologne. Your own arousal is extraordinarily obvious. It’s what makes the devil standing in front of you have a shred of mercy. 

“Open your mouth but keep your hands on your knees.” 

Lips part immediately, unashamed by any sign of overeagerness, and Ignis slowly guides himself into your mouth. You force yourself to relax your jaw and breathe deeply through your nose when you realize he expects you to take him to the base of his cock. Eyes water slightly but you power through it, fingers digging painfully into your knees. Once he’s settled into you for a moment, he slowly begins to fuck your mouth, green eyes gazing down at you the entire time, watching as your cheeks hollow and you suck with each thrust. One hand grabs the back of your head to keep you steady. The wet heat of your mouth makes him twitch. His lips part in a soft moan and he tilts his head back. 

A warm, buzzing sensation travels down his spine and blossoms between his legs, makes his back arch and his fingers curl in your hair. Still, he refrains from violently bucking into you, keeping his composure even now. It’s the least he can do, considering you follow his orders so well. A strangled groan pours from his lips when you drag your tongue along a prominent vein. Hands squeeze your thighs at every noise you manage to get out of him, each one only serving to further  rile you up. Ignis feels you tensing up and looks back down at you. He sees the way your eyebrows knit together in frustration, feels the way your breath comes out in short, dissatisfied puffs, and he orders, “Touch yourself.” 

Your hands are immediately between your thighs with a relieved groan that reverberates right into Ignis’ cock, eyes screwing shut. Hands and fingers move quickly, frantically, your breathing becoming uneven as you reach up and tweak one of your nipples. Though Ignis is enjoying the show, feeling a bit dizzy now, he removes himself from your mouth. “That’s enough. Stop.” The two of you are panting now but you remain still, just like he ordered, frozen in place. His gaze simmers at the sight of you. Your head hangs down, one hand on your chest and the other unmoving but wedged between your thighs. “Look at me and stand up.” And when you swiftly follow his orders and he sees the lingering defiance and raw hunger in your eyes, it’s all over. 

His mouth is on yours, hands everywhere. The two of you move into the bedroom where the backs of your knees hit the bed and you go falling backward with Ignis on top of you. But he’s off of you too soon, rummaging in his bag somewhere. You know what’s coming but are still surprised when he throws one of your legs over his shoulder and delicately applies lube. “Are you ready?” Ignis breathes, voice deep and eyes serious. 

You nod quickly. “Yeah.” 

He sinks into you with a strained groan, mouth agape. He takes it slow, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside of you, before giving a few tentative thrusts. At that full feeling, you throw your head back and moan. He presses open-mouthed kisses against your chest in response, swirling his tongue around one of your nipples. After all of that foreplay, neither of you lasts long. Thrusts are fast and deep, one wicked hand wedged between the two of you to make sure you cum. It’s an audible smack of skin on skin and sweat dripping down your brow, friction and wet noises. 

Your hands fist in the sheets on either side of you and you cry out his name, voice hoarse. Ignis grins at the sound, at the feeling of you coming undone beneath him, and he follows shortly after. You feel like you’re floating, a grin on your face as Ignis places delicate kisses on your face and neck. After all that harsh talk, after that authoritative tone, he softly whispers praise against your skin with a shy smile on his lips. You run your fingers through his light brown hair as that trail of praise goes lower and lower down your body. Then dread leadens your gut. 

“Shit! The cake!”

* * *

**Gladiolus**

He’s nervous. Gladio has known you long enough that he can speculate on how you might react to any given thing. Not that he finds you predictable in a dull way, but he just _knows_ you. That superior mage; secretive yet ethical to the extreme. Dutiful and shrewd. He knows you’ll make a joke of what he’s going to say to hide your curiosity. He knows he’ll be subjected to _two_ judgmental stares. 

That damn familiar of yours is always around. Right now, it’s a flat-faced feline curled up on your lap, tail thumping against your thigh as you flip through your grimoire and sip your coffee. Every now and then you murmur something to the cat and Gladio thinks the damn thing actually smiles. He knows you’re close to it but it still creeps him out. It’s always there by your side. Always there to nudge you toward your grimoire and get you researching; the two of you with your heads together. Always there to nudge _him_ toward you. It’s like the familiar knows when you’re getting overwhelmed and overworked. And when it detects your fatigue it finds the Shield and stares him into oblivion. 

That habit hardly endears it to him. But Gladiolus can certainly appreciate anything that has your best interests at heart. It’s useful to him in that respect because you would _never_ admit to feeling overwhelmed until you’re at your breaking point; something about you that will always bother him. Because you opened up to him before and he’d hoped you’d continue to. 

“Hey, Magey, can I talk to you for a minute?” Two pairs of vivid eyes fixate on him and he tries not to grimace. That damn, creepy-ass cat. It looks like it’s smirking at him right now, golden eyes gleaming deviously. Those eyes alone make the caravan feel even more cramped than it already is  with it just being you three. This is a rare period of downtime that everyone takes advantage of in their own way. 

Though free time is certainly a rarity- something to covet- a routine has already been established. You’re all supposed to spend quality time _together_. Except... you all spend _every waking moment_ together. Everyone is on everyone else’s last damn nerve. So that established routine? It’s torn up and tossed in the trash like a newspaper with yet another imperial-grade propaganda piece on the cover. The caravan in northern Alstor quickly grew cramped with tension and conflict. Accidental bumps of an elbow were seen as personal affronts and a careless glance held a litany of projected feelings. The others dispersed, leaving you alone in the caravan; daemon on your lap, grimoire in hand, and sipping Iggy’s wonderful coffee. 

But after Gladio had a word with Noct, he knew he needed to come and find you. You’ve grown close. Near-death experiences tend to catapult close relationships into fruition, it would seem, and Gladio hates that you’ve had as many as you’ve had. It’s what made him dare to tell Noct to keep a close eye on you. “They’re a magnet for trouble,” he’d grumbled, feeling his cheeks flush under his friend’s sly smirk. Though you’ve grown so close, sharing food and stories that have each other squinting at one another before laughing (“Have I ever told you about the time that I enchanted a magister’s shoes to make farting noises whenever he walked?” “ _No_... The hell, Magey?”), Gladiolus feels like a leave of absence might throw a wrench in the system. 

A baseless fear, of course. But it’s what has his jaw clenching when you don’t immediately respond to him, instead looking to that cat that looks like it ran face-first into a wall; the two of you sitting in the breakfast nook looking like an ad to support your local library. The cat on your lap purrs, “Ooh. Look at how he’s looking at you. Please, get the door for me lest I'm subjected to-” 

“Shut up!” You scoff. It takes the Shield a moment to realize you didn’t just tell _him_ to shut up but are instead talking to that damn “familiar.” Your grimoire is snapped shut and the cat is gently but insistently pushed off of your lap. It rolls off of you lazily with a long, dramatic yowl before settling onto the bench beside you. Irritated, you look at Gladio and sigh, “Go on.” 

Amber eyes flicker down to that self-satisfied looking cat. “You mind if it’s in private?” 

“ _Ooh_. Priva-” 

“Would you _just-_?” An aggravated sigh is what you utilize in order to swiftly cut yourself off. The daemon doesn’t really appreciate foul language but at this point it’s stopped the useless scoldings. Unamused gold eyes peer up at you, making you stand abruptly. “A private chat sounds nice. Let’s go, Gladiolus.”  With that, you brush by the Shield who takes up far too much of the kitchen area and you nearly throw yourself out of the caravan. Warm afternoon air greets you. It always smells damp and musky in Alstor, like you’re perpetually knee-deep in algae even when you go indoors. The musk aggravates Noct and Prom but invigorates you and Gladio. 

“Wanna go for a swim?” The Shield had asked you, amber eyes gleaming when he first saw the lake. 

You’d taken one sidelong glance at the catoblepas that lounged languidly in the tepid water and snorted, “Wanna get a UTI?” 

The Shield follows on your heels as you make a beeline for the gas station. At this point in your relationship, he doesn’t need to ask what you’re up to. Junk food. That’s the plan. It’s a comforting ritual. You and Gladio will indulge in novel foods together as you have a tête-à-tête.  Gladio’s feeling slightly more at ease now that the usual routine is picked up. “Let’s sit,” he suggests and you give him a gobsmacked look when he gestures toward the bench outside of the Crow’s Nest. Y’know? The one with that eerie Kenny Crow statue on it? Your expression turns deadly when Gladiolus makes a show of sitting next to Kenny and spreads his legs so you have nowhere to sit. 

It’s either Gladio or the statue. So, you’re left to sit uncomfortably on Kenny Crow’s lap while Gladio hides his disappointment that you didn’t take the bait. An evil glare is shot his way and you bump the bottom of his soda when he goes to take a drink, making him spill some down his chest. Blue liquid leaves sticky trails. The Shield sputters on carbonation before glaring at you. “Oops,” you deadpan. “My bad.” 

Gladio grumbles, nose still burning and dark brows knitted together, “You’re a real piece of work, ya know that?” 

“Hm. Must be with how often you stare at me,” you drawl, opening your bag of treats. He almost chokes on his soda all over again and you don’t even bump him. Six, is he that obvious? Yes. Yes he is. Gladio noticed that you’ve been walking with a bit of extra swagger in your gait lately... And though he knows he _should_ feel embarrassed, is it wrong for him to derive pleasure from the fact that you’ve been putting on a show specifically _for him_? 

“Just starin’ at that dorky sweater of yours,” he snarks back. Atta boy. Get back into that teasing groove of you two sniping at each other. Amber eyes watch as you pop a leek-and-sesame- flavored rice cake in your mouth before shaking the bag at him like a bag of treats to a dog. 

“Wouldn’t expect _you_ to know anything about fashion,” you tease, watching with glimmering eyes as he takes some rice cakes. “Your getup is so awful that you had nothing to protect you from that evil soda. That’s just bad armor planning, Gladdy.” 

The elder Amicitia glowers at you, fighting off an indignant blush. “I wasn’t _attacked_ by a soda. Just had some uppity mage screwin’ with me.” All he gets out of you is a snort. Typical. You’ve been so snarky and- dare he think it- _flirty_ as of late. Lately, you’ve sorta been full of energy. If you ignore the fact that you’re lying by omission to everyone, that you lost your home and your only family, this is a weirdly high point in your life. Mood-wise, for sure. Comfort is drawn from your friends and from the daemon. You get love from your friends and a guiding force from the daemon.

It’s as if the strange, yellow-eyed creature has made it its life goal to make sure you’re content and you’re broadening your knowledge on the arcane arts. It’s almost suspiciously knowledgeable. It’s the best damn teacher you’ve ever had. With the daemon by your side, you aren’t nervous. Confidence grows and you open up more with the others as a result. The transition in you is obvious to Gladio. Yeah, you’re still all dodgy, but you’re back to that haughty, self-satisfied mage he loves to aggravate. Except now you’re a bit more _brazen_. He’s unaware that the daemon is wing-manning the hell out of you. That it has taken up the mantle of life coach when you aren’t calling or texting Drusa. 

“Well?” You press, ripping the Shield from his thoughts with a gentle bump of your foot against his knee. “Though our banter never ceases to thrill me, I know you brought me out here for a reason. So, talk.” 

“Right,” Gladio clears his throat. Fingers drum against his knee. He looks pensive, dark lashes fluttering as he gazes off at the cars that pass by on the highway. “I’m gonna be leaving for a bit. Got some stuff to take care of.” Amber eyes cast you a sidelong glance and the Shield assures you, “I’ll be back before you miss me.” 

“But I miss you already.” You’re joking. But it still hits Gladiolus Amicitia right in the middle of his godsdamned chest. Because you? (y/n) Iovita? You’re pure evil. Looking at him from beneath those damn lashes like that and pouting out that damn bottom lip like that? Who the hell do you think you are? Who gave you the right? 

“Dork,” snorts Gladio, cheeks coloring prettily as he looks away. 

“Thanks for telling me, though,” you add, talking around another rice cake, trying to keep things lighthearted but respectful because this topic obviously means a lot to the brunet... Though you aren’t exactly sure _why_. Hell, he was approaching you like he was going to deliver devastating news. 

You don’t know that he fears he’ll be pushing you away by not being present. Again, a baseless fear. It’s just that you can be a bit flighty; giving affection and withdrawing it seemingly out of nowhere. There’s a disconnect that he’s unaware of. Gladio is totally clueless to the fact that he’s been giving you mixed signals. Because he’s friendly, yes, and that’s all well and good... but he’s _too_ friendly. It leads you to fear that he might _just_ think of you as a friend. The brunet grunts, staring at his hands, “No problem. Figured I should’ve.” 

You two have been on the precipice of something more than friendship for a while now. Recently, there have been... _jokes_. Now, Gladio has always been rather forward with you while keeping things respectful. He’s enjoyed your startled expressions and haughty sneers. And you’ve begun to casually reciprocate... But these recent jokes are _very_ different. They aren’t the usual flippant rebuttals of his advances done in the company of the others. These are done in secret. They’re done when you two are alone and they leave Gladiolus feeling like you set him on fire. Sometimes they’re _crude_. Sometimes they’re whispered so he has to draw near to you so your lips just ghost over his ear, hand hovering over his chest, goosebumps breaking out along his skin. 

Sometimes they’re said conversationally and out of nowhere. Signaled by elbow bumps and a hooded gaze, a smirk, and a jerk of your chin to indicate you want him closer. Then you'll drawl, "Hey, Gladio... Wanna hear a joke?" And he'll say yeah, even though 75% of the time it's the same tired joke: "Gladiolus Amicitia." Then he'll roll his eyes and shove your shoulder because then he _knows_ you'll do something else right after- something that he looks forward to perhaps too much. A ridiculous fake moan, all high and needy, in the hopes of embarrassing him, "Oh! Harder, Gladdy!" And you almost kill him the first time you do it. Your laughter rang in his ears for days and days. But that moan lasted for far longer. 

It’s a joke that he wants to hear again and again and again. It’s your way of getting back at him for every last joke and flirtation he ever made that turned you into a sweating, sputtering, floundering mess of a mage. You do it out of spite at first. You savored how his eyes darkened and his cheeks flushed; how his breathing grew shallow. But Gladio wants to make that moan real. It’s a tense thing for you, those jokes. Sure, you were a little hellion back in the Spire but you never made any sort of sexual advances toward _anyone_. There were some attractive mages, of course, but there was always a strange power dynamic in play that made things feel a bit... gross. As the child of the family in charge, you just felt like you had too much weight behind your name. 

_That_ and a bunch of mages your age hated you anyway, _so_...You weren’t about to get naked with someone who was liable to smother you with a pillow or hold the tryst over your head as blackmail. Is it sad that you were way too damn paranoid to be a stereotypical horny teenager? But now? With Gladiolus? Someone who refuses to back down from any of your challenges and vice versa? Six, save you both. And he’s just too damn endearing for his own good. Sure, he can be obnoxious with that whole “survivalist” mentality that makes you want to smother him with your sleeping bag, but he’s _fun_. And, most importantly, he doesn’t act like he’s afraid of you. He doesn’t let your family name get in the way of how he treats you. 

The teasing, the palling around, all of that? It’s something you’ve never had with anyone else before. Punches on your shoulder, slaps on your back, and unrestrained physical contact that isn’t followed by a flinch or a glare? It’s safe to say that he has your head spinning. You’ve got it _bad_ for him. But that palling around? There’s nothing romantic about it as far as you can tell. All of your flirtation, all of your innuendo begs for him to _do something_ and vice versa. You’re both trying not to seem too forward, too overeager. But you? You’re in a tricky spot. Because you don’t know how these things go. Though you’ve spent loads of quality time together, all social conventions state that you need to “officially date” for things to progress romantically. 

Drusa didn’t know how to handle her adopted child struggling to come to terms with wanting to romance their best friend. Knowing you so well, she couldn’t formulate a response that _wouldn’t_ make you shut down and back off- pushing the issue aside altogether, letting a potentially healthy and mature relationship blow away in the wind. However, before your unofficial stepmother graciously bowed out to let you resolve the issue in your own way, she left you with a bit of advice: “You won’t ever know if what you’re feeling is mutual if you don’t gather the nerve to ask for yourself. And if it isn’t? Well, there’s no law against remaining friends. Clearly, you love him. It isn’t just infatuation or lust so it won’t just go away.” 

That part about it not just going away made you feel even worse at first, though. It would be comforting to know that if you get rejected those feelings can just go away over time instead of you being stuck with ‘em. But if it’s love for Gladiolus? Of wanting him to be healthy and happy? You find that you can live with that even if it’s only just that. Then you got a text: 

_Btw, I’m not dumb. I knew what you were getting at, honey. There’s also no law against having sex if you’ve already got to that point w/o dates. Dates are for people with time! Be safe!!! :)))_

And you were simultaneously grateful and wishing for death. You texted back indignantly: 

_Not on his LIFE, Dru!_

Her response was a simple: 

_lol suuuuuuuure!_

But now the object of your affection is leaving and he seems awfully strange about it. Moody? No. Maybe anxious? Gladiolus certainly wears anxiety oddly. It’s not fidgeting hands or restless legs but a puckered brow and clenched jaw. Though you’re infinitely curious, you tell yourself to give him space. He’s a grown man, after all, and you’d expect him to respect your privacy as well. Besides, if he’d wanted you to know what he was running off to do, he would’ve told you point-blank. Gladio isn’t one for beating around the bush... Except that’s not true when it comes to you. ‘Cause that’s _all_ he’s been doing with his favorite mage. A fact that weighs heavily on his mind right now when he’s getting ready to leave. 

Suddenly you’re ripped out of your musings by Gladio grabbing your calf and tugging on your leg. That simple gesture nearly has you sliding right off of Kenny Crow’s uncomfortable lap with a startled yelp. When you look at Gladio, he nods his head at the bag in your hands and orders, “Share, Greedy Mage.” 

“Wow, you’re the absolute _worst_ at coming up with nicknames,” you groan, shoving the bag of rice cakes toward him. The two of you fall into a contemplative silence after the Shield gives you a grunt of acknowledgement for your sass. You both get back to thinking. Cars continue to zoom on by, heat rising up from the pavement. 

“ _I won’t ever know if this feeling is mutual if I don’t ask..._ ” you think blandly, so desperately wanting to remain passive for the sake of protecting your ego but also just so damn fed up with  being passive. Quite the conundrum. Quite serendipitous that you catch Gladio stealing a glance at you right at this very moment. 

“I’ve been wanting to do something with you,” you confess before he can look away and before you can lose your nerve. Amber eyes fixate on you and the Shield turns so he can better face you, giving you his full attention. “Now might not be the best time since we won’t be seeing each other for a while, though,” you admit, suddenly bashful. 

That blush? The one that stains his cheeks right now? The Shield swears he can feel it in his _soul_. Gladio clears his throat. “Yeah? Whataya wanna do, Magey?” 

“Well, I wanted to ask if you wanted to hang out. I know we’ve been hanging out _all the time_ since we started this journey, but, this would be just us and...” Throat is cleared loudly to purposefully garble what you say next: “I think of you as more than a friend.” 

There’s a series of mental high-fives and fireworks going on in Gladio’s head that you’re completely unaware of. He can’t keep the cheesy grin off of his face, though. It brings you immediate relief. But honestly? The Shield sighs to himself. It should be a _crime_ for you to be this sweet. “Sure. Sounds good. Have anything in mind?” 

Head cocks and you sigh, “Honestly? Not really.” 

“We can watch a movie,” Gladio suggests, shrugging his broad shoulders. To look casual, he leans forward and plants his elbows on his knees. Head turns to maintain eye contact. Little does he know that eye contact is the bane of your existence at the moment. 

“Where would we watch a movie, though?” You ask the obvious question that you already know the answer to. Just want to hear him say it, though. Just want him to confirm a needling, hopeful little suspicion of yours as you two continue to play coy. 

“There’s a TV in the caravan’s bedroom.” Props should be given to the Shield. With the amount of second-hand shame that you’ve put him through, he’s nearly mastered the art of the repressed blush. Sadly, he just can’t fight it when your mouth immediately pops open in a silent “oh” and you slyly dart your eyes away, lips curling up into a smirk at his expense. 

“ _Six, finally!_ ” 

You _knew_ something was up when he didn’t suggest something _outdoors_. He’s a bit tired of toeing the line with you and he wonders if you are, too. That question is answered when you hop off of Kenny’s lap and begin heading over to the convenience store. Well, that makes the brunet frown. Did he read you wrong? Oh, dammit. “Where’re you going?” Gladio calls after you, standing awkwardly in front of the Crow’s Nest. 

The words get stuck in your mouth. Is this too forward? Well, if it is, better safe than sorry any day. Throat is cleared as you call over your shoulder, “I need to pick some stuff up. You go on ahead to the caravan.” 

Gladio bites his lip. “Sure. Okay.” 

A bolt of caramel shoots between his feet and out of the caravan the second he opens the door. Clearly the cat knows you two are going to need some privacy and Gladio’s just happy he didn’t need to chase it out with a broom or something. He’s feeling jittery and a bit nervous. Hastily, the Shield sets about making the bed and finding a channel that’s showing a movie. What’s your favorite genre? He recalls you saying “Anything I could get my grubby little gremlin hands on” so he figures you won’t be too upset with _The Wicker Man_. While he sets up the venue, spritzing  cologne on the bed, you stare at condoms with the store clerk staring at you. Six, you nearly throw one of the damn boxes at him. 

Thin plastic bag in hand, you make your merry little way over to the caravan, feeling particularly hot under the collar after having that unwanted audience to your dilemma of picking the right thing. Why did your need for control have to come out in _that_ particular instance? Six, you should’ve just sucked it up and had Gladio come along. “Holy crap!” You gripe, covering your nose the second you set foot inside the caravan. “Did you drop Iggy’s cologne again? He’s gonna be pissed if you broke the bottle.” 

Gladio’s cheeks are a defiant red as he stands in the bedroom doorway. “No.” Amber eyes flicker down to the bag in your hand and he thrusts you into the hot-seat. “Whatcha got there?” 

“Stuff,” you blurt, not-so-subtly moving the bag so it’s partly behind you. 

A crooked smirk is shot your way. “Uh-huh.” 

Neither one of you pays the movie much mind (though you keep getting distracted by bad acting and worse writing). Both of you are trying to trick the other into thinking you’re all sweet and innocent and _just_ here to watch a cheesy movie that’s constantly interrupted by obnoxious commercials. But you keep catching glimpses of amber looking your way. There’s something to be said for your acting talent. You find clever ways to touch him; bumping your hand against his thigh to get the remote and adjust the volume, leaning across him to put the remote on the dinky little nightstand next to his side of the bed. When you do the latter, the Shield complains about you blocking the TV and pulls you down on top of him. 

You’re dead. You’re a corpse on Gladiolus’ lap.  


The actor on TV yells out, _“Killing me won’t bring back your goddamn honey!”_

A snort leaves you and Gladio grins when he feels you loosen up and finally drape across him comfortably. Tension quickly snaps back through you when fingertips draw circles on your back. It’s something you can barely feel through your many layers of clothing. It has you sitting up on your knees a moment to shrug off your sweater before resuming your position. Two can play at that sneaky little game. Circles are drawn lower and lower, giving you time to tell him to knock it off. Eyelids flutter when those fingers find their way under your shirt and against your skin. But your shirt doesn’t give him much room to move his hand, so, logically, you find yourself back on your knees and taking it off. Amber eyes burn into you. It’s your haughty smirk that triggers everything. 

Before you can casually resume your position, two strong hands grab your waist and you’re guided to straddle the Shield’s lap. Lips find your collarbone, callused hands running up and down your sides. Blood is fire in your veins as you roll your head to the side to give the brunet easier access to your neck. Teeth glide along your pulse, hands grab your ass and pull you down fully onto him. Hips rock back and forth against his erection, spurring him on. It’s at this point that you two realize you’re wearing way too many clothes. They’re done away with in a blink- the fastest you’ve ever undressed, if you’re being honest. You two probably set some world records. You _definitely_ set the record for world’s hottest full-body blush when you see Gladio in all his naked glory. 

“ _Play it cool!_ ” You order yourself, having no idea that he tells himself the same exact thing. 

Before you know it, you’re tossed back down on the bed with a shocked laugh, bouncing a bit from the impact, forehead hitting Gladiolus’ chin and making his teeth click together because he wastes absolutely no time getting on top of you. Gladio quickly blurts, “Sorry! Was that too  rough? Shit...” He rubs his chin. Damn that smarts. Damn that’s _embarrassing_. 

And you just can’t help yourself. Hands cover your face as you laugh hysterically. After a bit, Gladio’s rumbling laughter joins yours. His forehead rests against yours, butterscotch eyes gazing at you with warmth and mirth. “Am I just _that_ irresistible?” You gently tease, reaching up and stroking his chin, thumb ghosting over the red splotch he just gave himself there. Pretty sure you’re gonna have a welt on your forehead, too. The heat of him is like a furnace above you, which only adds to the growing warmth between your thighs. Eyes dart to the bedroom door and you say, “I-I bought some stuff. It’s on the counter.” 

That has Gladio off of you in a heartbeat. He seems absolutely shameless about strutting around naked. The brunet collects the bag from the kitchen counter and shuts the bedroom door behind him when he returns. It’s extremely difficult for you to _not_ stare at the sheer girth of him as he settles down on the bed and begins digging through the bag. “Um...” Gladio murmurs and your eyes shoot up to his face. “These aren’t my size.” 

Yeah, no kidding. That started to become a very real fear of yours once you actually got a look at him. Still, you ask, “Are you kidding me?” 

He scratches his nose, refusing to make eye contact. “Nope.” Not unless he doesn't give a damn about blood circulation. 

“Shit.” 

Now he looks at you, a crooked smile on his face. Okay, the fact that you clearly want to do this is making him blush. Add into that the fact that you went out of your way to prepare for a sexual encounter _with him_? Why, Gladiolus Amicitia is feeling downright flattered. “Don’t worry about it, Magey. We can do somethin’ else.” 

“Like what? Scrabble?” 

That makes Gladio laugh. And then he makes a suggestion that makes _you_ laugh. Honestly, you were just going to suggest a blowjob or a handjob. Sure, it would be messier than you’d wanted, but improvisation is one of your strong points. Too bad shocked word-vomit is another one of your strong points. “Okay, but if you’re doing that to me while I give you a blowjob, I’m kinda going to be in a tricky spot if I get you off first.” 

Gladio blinks. “What?”  


Flustered, you tug at the bedsheet and murmur, “I’ll just swallow then if that happens.” 

“ _What_?” 

“Oh, shut up. I like to think ahead! And sometimes I think aloud! You know that!” You huff indignantly, arms crossed. That has Gladio laughing and pulling you into his arms. He showers your neck in kisses and tells you how cute you are, which makes you playfully shove at his chest and order him to take it back. And then there’s awkward silence as you two get into position. Another movie plays on the TV, serving as mood-killing background noise. You’re equal parts excited and nervous. Part of you is just relieved that something is _finally_ happening while another part informs you of the litany of ways that this can go wrong. You tell that part to shut the hell up. 

Gladio clears his throat, glad to be able to ogle your ass without you really knowing even though _logically_ you _know_. “Well, I got a helluva nice view since you wanted to top. So, thanks for twisting my arm.” His humor is rewarded with a strained and embarrassed laugh from his favorite mage. The Shield smiles at that. “I’ll let you start. I’ll keep up with your pace. Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you barely breathe, already feeling a bit dizzy. 

Slowly, you lower your mouth down onto his thigh, breath coming out in a shaky huff of a laugh when his cock twitches a bit in anticipation of what you’ll do next. Gentle kisses are placed there first, trailing from the apex of his thigh to the base of his cock. Then you add tongue and a gentle graze of teeth, leaving a love bite on his inner thigh that makes him grunt. Fingers gently stroke him, adding pressure in teasing increments. He’s heavy in your hand and you’re loving the soft sighs he’s giving you, hands gripping your thighs and slowly lowering you down to meet his eager mouth, sending an electric bolt shooting right through you. The Shield has to place a hand on your lower back to keep you from moving too much. 

You take a moment to ground yourself before continuing. 

Tongue glides over his head in short, circular motions, drawing throaty moans out of him that reverberate right there between your thighs. Lips around him, you take in a steadying breath through your nose, and take him as far as you can, wrapping your hand around what you can’t reach. And then you wait because all movement between your thighs immediately ceases. Gladio is seeing stars. Head thrown back against the pillow, dark hair splayed out. You can hear him panting behind you but you don’t release him. Head moves up and down in tandem with your hand as you get drunk off of the taste and the musky smell of him; sucking and swallowing, stroking and squeezing. You dip your other hand down to stroke his balls and he barely stops short of bucking up. 

The sensation of wet heat between your legs returns in earnest and makes you gasp and groan around him. You fight back the instinct to move, to grind back against him. Gladio gives you a long, languid lick, breath ghosting across saliva to send a thrilling chill up your spine, making your back arch. Thighs tremble. Shit, you’re regretting demanding to be on top. Feeling you shake, he grabs your thighs and spreads them even more, exposes you even more to him. The sudden shift makes you tilt forward, taking him to the back of your throat. Both of you freeze. That gag reflex? You deserve a damn medal for only huffing out a short breath through your nose and squeezing your eyes shut. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts. 

“Sorry.” Gladio’s voice is strained, tight at the feeling of you instinctively swallowing around him. “S-Sorry...” 

Chin brushes against dark, coarse hair a moment longer and you finally pull up before continuing. After that, he won’t last much longer. You can feel him twitching in your mouth and throbbing in your hand. With how he massages your thighs as an apology and flicks and drags his tongue along you, neither will you, for that matter. The room is filled with the sounds of muffled moans and choked groans, wet noises and the creaking of old bed springs. A patchwork of bruises will decorate your thighs after, something that will make heat coil in your gut later much the same way the sight of that love bite on his inner thigh will do to Gladiolus. 

With your free hand, you massage Gladio’s thigh, still keeping your elbow awkwardly planted on the bed to maintain your balance. But that balance of yours? It’s becoming a shaky thing. The world begins to spin. A familiar sensation creeps up your spine, spurred on by Gladiolus’ insistent tongue and throaty moans, each one shooting right through you. It winds you up and up and up until you finally snap. 

But even as the room crowds in on you and blood pounds in your ears, cumming on his tongue, you don’t stop working Gladio until he cums in the back of your throat with a strained, hoarse cry. You stiffen up a moment before relaxing, breathing deeply through your nose, and swallowing. Once you’re certain you’ve got it all down, you release him and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. The two of you stay in this awkward position for a bit longer, just to catch your breath. An annoying jingle plays on the TV, an ad for a fast-food joint. For some reason that makes you laugh and that rumbling chuckle of Gladio’s quickly follows. Maybe you’re both just high off of  endorphins? Two laughing fools curled up on the bed together. 

When you finally muster up the energy to lie down next to the Shield, amber eyes gaze at you fondly and he sighs, “I’m already lookin’ forward to coming back.” 

Cheeks warm up and you grin. “You’re _so_ lame."


	41. Prompto: One-Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some relationship fluff.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Mild NSFW Content, OOC Galore, Bad Jokes, Bold But Insecure, Takes Place 95% in Prompto’s Head, Purple Prose Mofos, Sorry For Butchering Your Fave, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, The Mildest of Angst, Body Issues

**One-Up**

"Hey, (y/n)! Come check this out!"

A common thing to hear these days. There’s an inflection, a put-on gasp of awe to really sell the ruse. It’s met with raised eyebrows and knowing looks from the others most times, especially when these occurrences take place within a short period of time. It's an almost desperate attempt by Prompto Argentum to get you alone. Can anyone really blame him, though? He’s lovestruck to the extreme; so enamored by the fascinating mage who is so stern yet never fails to indulge his fancy.

You’ll cock your head and hum in curiosity. Blue eyes will narrow marginally at the others, a subtle and not wholly unkind way to silently let them know that they're  _not_  welcome. He tries not to be rude about it, but alone time with his favorite mage is a precious commodity for the blond sharpshooter. So, sometimes he can get a  _little_  snappish about it if one of the guys forgets themselves and unwittingly tries to invite themselves on what they don't realize is Prom's way of trying to sneak in some quality time with you.

Ever since your second official date, things have naturally progressed to the point that the sexual tension is now aggravatingly palpable between you two. These little side trips between you and Prompto have been innocent enough: Quick chats and playing catch-up; holding hands and long hugs where you feel like you’re melting into him. These times away from the others are filled with selfies and very terrible jokes that only you two could ever laugh at. Even obnoxious exchanges of pop culture references with yours being rather dated.

And  _now_ …?

Well, Prompto is hoping for more and he hopes upon that hope that he doesn’t come across as too needy or clingy. Unfortunately for Prom, he’s already built up the reputation of being a bit clingy to you, considering  _he’s_ the one who initiates all of these clandestine meetings. And if he’d just open his eyes and look beyond his insecurities, he’d realize that you have absolutely no problem with it- with  _him_. Being someone who has never once gladly suffered fools, the fact that you entertain him should be Prom’s biggest indicator that you’re on the same level.

Yet, trekking through the Nebulawood for treasure in the early afternoon, there’s still a stirring of anxiety in Prompto’s gut the second his declaration leaves his lips. There’s apprehension in his gaze when your wicked eyes alight curiously on him. After you immediately size him up and realize what his game is, a coy smirk quirking your lips, excitement is there but it can’t quite stomp out everything else- every insecurity- that’s been building up in the small blond.

“Oh-?”

Your scripted response, the one you’ve always done since practically the beginning of time with your “secret” boyfriend, is interrupted. You don’t get to pull out all the stops: Index finger on your chin, eyebrows raised up to the heavens as if they’re an offering to the gods, and an anticipatory smile that Prompto’s ego can feast on for days. Nope. Prom isn’t blessed with your awful acting. Because Gladio, in a moment of inattention, doesn’t realize that you two are playing a game-  _the_  game. He actually thinks Prom found something.

Can’t rightly blame the big guy. You’re all  _supposed_  to be treasure hunting, after all.

"Huh? What'd you see?" Gladio wonders, meandering over to where Prompto stands, gesturing toward a thicket. Cornflower blue eyes flash and Prompto's lips arc down into a frown the closer the Shield gets. Once he's by the shorter man's side, amber eyes dart around the foliage and Gladdy grunts, "Don't see anything."

"Didn't know we had  _two_  people in the group named (y/n)," Prompto says quite cattily and you take that as your cue to jump in.

Clearing your throat as abruptly as you clear the distance between yourself and the two men, you suggest, "Why don't you all go on ahead? Prom and I will catch up once I take a gander at whatever he spotted."

"Sounds good," Noct agrees, wise to the goings on of his friends. Gladiolus, on the other hand, merely gives Prompto a bland, unimpressed look for his snark. It isn't totally Prom's fault! Because of how things are progressing in his relationship with you, all sorts of anxieties are bubbling up to the surface and making him slightly more snappish than usual.

It's the usual cocktail of negative emotion. Old feelings from before he knew how you felt about him are rehashed tenfold. Inadequacy and doubt, fear and a painful dash of self-loathing. Because for dear Prompto Argentum, he’s 100% positive that you’re  _way_  out of his league. “They’re so out of my league that we aren’t even playing the same sport anymore,” he’d gloomily confided with a hint of self-deprecating humor to Noct one night when you were busy helping Iggy make dinner.

“Didn’t know you played sports,” Noct had jokingly quipped only to bite his tongue at his best friend’s dejected expression. The prince sighed, “Prompto, trust me when I say that you need to give yourself more credit. (y/n) obviously fell for you for a reason and they’re too serious and good of a person to be playing with your feelings.”

And the shutterbug  _knows_  that you’re a good person. Your kind heart is just one of the many reasons why he fell so quickly for you. However, a low self-esteem has a way of clouding one’s judgment. It has a way of spoiling everything and turning every good thing in life into something nefarious. Compliments are seen as snide remarks and acceptance has so many imaginary strings attached that it’s perceived to be a cruel act. Prompto is afraid that he’s the butt of some joke every time you hold him and share private moments with him.

Because your love? Directed toward him? It’s just too good to be true, isn’t it?

The funny thing is that he never used to be  _this_  self-conscious. Prom prides himself on being able to put on a brave act in the face of disappointment. It’s one of his many talents. But ever since he realized that he’s in love with you (and, boy, he’s  _so_  in love with you) he fears that he actually won’t be able to put on a brave face if it turns out that you don’t feel the same way. It’s what makes him dawdle even when he wants to finally tell you exactly how he feels. It renders him mute now that you two are alone today.

And he hates himself for it. For squandering his time with you by letting fear get in the way. ‘Cause dammit if it isn’t next to impossible to get time for yourselves when you’re all constantly orbiting around Noctis like the guy is the damn sun. His hate for himself doubles when his rational side points out that even if you  _don’t_  love him, that doesn’t mean you never will or that it’s the end of the world (thought it’ll definitely feel like it in the moment). This century of Prom psyching himself out takes place under your curious gaze.

“You okay?” You ask, casting your companion a sidelong glance when his silence has begun to last far too long. The others left you two alone almost ten minutes ago and the blond has been quiet ever since. Though you quite enjoy the beautiful scenery in the Nebulawood and love sniffing around for useful plants, this is starting to get uncomfortable. Not that Prom makes you uncomfortable! But this type of silence coupled with the grave expression on his face? You feel like you’re at a damn funeral.

With warm sunbeams streaming down on him from between spindly branches and supple leaves, Prompto looks almost otherworldly. Freckles look like they’re made of caramel, his hair is made of sunlight, and his eyes are a shocking shade of blue. The deep crimson of his shirt makes his skin almost milky and impossibly soft looking. But that damn expression of his kills the mood. Especially when he turns those deep blue eyes onto you and murmurs, “Can we talk for a sec?”

“Well,” you gesture around vaguely to point out your isolation, a lame deflection from your sudden unease, “I don’t see why not. In fact, considering we aren’t currently ogling some wondrous thing that you allegedly spotted, I figured a chat was why you called me over in the first place.” This observant statement is finished off with a charming smile to hide your disquiet. ‘Cause nothing good comes from someone saying they wanna talk in  _that_  somber tone.

The shutterbug flushes and laughs hollowly, “Heh. Yeah. Ya got me.” His ears are red at being called out like that but you always manage to sniff out his motives no matter how hard he tries to mask them. Although this is his usual schtick to get you alone, it’s obvious that this time is going to be different from all the others. There’s no levity here despite that pathetic attempt at a laugh. The atmosphere is so thick with tension that it nearly chokes your perceptive self. So, it’s with great hesitance that you follow Prompto into the woods.

Unfortunately for you both, the silence drags on for an age. Occasionally you can hear cars pass by on the nearby road, though you can’t see them through the thicket. Roots are stepped over and the occasional wild animal is shooed away. The two of you make it to a small clearing by the time Prompto finally speaks again. It’s two measly words: “Wanna sit?” and yours is even worse: “Yeah.” Then the silence continues with the world’s most awkward duo sitting cross-legged in a verdant clearing in the afternoon warmth.

And, as usual, you’re the one to take control of the situation. Awkwardness is something you can always surmount if it’s for Prom’s sake. He’ll grow bold- grow  _comfortable_ \- once he’s seen you take the reins. With comedically drawn out movements, you stretch and recline back onto the ground with a sigh. “Y’know, that cute cat over at Galdin kept biting its little toes last time we were there,” you drawl, crossing your arms behind your head in an attempt to come across as casual. “I think it has cathlete’s foot.”

A shock of blue flashes back at you before peals of laughter fill the air. That head of blond hair is thrown back dramatically, always a receptive audience for the mage’s horrible jokes. “That’s so  _lame_!” Prompto chokes on his own spit, falling back and onto his side so he can look at you. His index finger prods your temple as a form of punishment. “Oh my gosh! How  _dare_  you say something so cringey to me!” Those freckled cheeks are a pretty pink now, blue eyes crinkled in the corners and lips split in a full-on grin.

Ah, the levity is back.

“Cringey?” You parrot sourly, poking him right back but firmly on his nose. “Excuse you? My jokes are on point. I should charge admission, you ingrate.”

Blue eyes turn all big as the devilish sharpshooter rests fully on the ground, cheek nestled on his arm. He blinks those baby-blues at you and wonders in pseudo innocence, “Oh… But I don’t have any money on me right now, (y/n)... How can I pay?”

“Six,” you grunt, casting your gaze away from him and onto the trees (since  _they_  aren’t currently reclined in a “sensual” pose), “are we in a bad porno right now?”

Too embarrassed by such a brazen comment from you (even though  _you’re_  embarrassed when you say it), the blond is at a loss for words. See, only  _you_  can do that to him. Prompto Argentum is a grade-A shit-talker who can hold his own against the best of ‘em. But when vulgarities, crude jokes, or even the mildest of innuendo comes tumbling off of (y/n) Iovita’s pretty lips? It’s like he can’t remember how to think. His brain turns into a jello mold that’s been left out in the summer sun.

And when he can’t come up with the right words? Well, Prompto Argentum prefers action.

This is the strangest dynamic you’ve ever had with anyone and also, somehow, the most satisfying. You play instigator for almost every interaction and then Prompto promptly takes the reins from you when he gets comfortable enough, leaving you as the submissive one of the duo. Exactly like now, as he leans over you, swooping down quite suavely to press a chaste kiss to your lips. He smells of balmy sunscreen ( _your_  suggestion), musky citrus cologne, and hairspray. “It’s what makes you so flammable,” you’d said with regard to the latter.

But it isn’t his excessive use of “flexible hold” hairspray that you’re focusing on now. It’s the warmth of his lips, slathered-up religiously with lip balm ever since you two realized just how much you enjoyed kissing- either quick pecks behind the others’ backs or like now, when you’re alone with seemingly all the time in the world. Fingers thread through his hair, pulling him close so his chest rests against yours. His forearm keeps him steady, pressed against grass that prickles his skin.

Knee gets bumped by his as Prompto assumes his favorite position: Top. Hovering over you, being so close, is a feeling that he struggles to describe. It’s this intense intimacy that frightens and excites him. Then you spread your legs for him and he starts the slow descent where he lowers himself onto you, adding just enough pressure to increase this desperate, urgent feeling that never fails to get stirred up when you two are alone like this. Never puts his full bodyweight on you. Never. You’re not sure why.

Many a time you’ve rolled your head to the side as he trails kisses down your neck, gaze falling on a trembling forearm when he’s maintained this position for too long. But before you two can get to that part again for maybe the hundredth time, you place your hand between his shoulder blades and turn your face away to break the kiss just as he makes to deepen it. The sudden apprehensive tension in his body, of an ever-present fear that you’ve come to your senses and don’t want him, has you hastening to explain yourself.

“Hold on,” you laugh, so breathless, and press a quick kiss to Prompto’s temple to reassure him. Fingertips trace patterns onto the nape of his neck to get his posture to slacken a bit and the blond finally gets off of you after returning your kiss. Sitting up, you cross your legs and duck your head to catch his eye. Once Prompto is looking at you (albeit a bit shyly), you ask, “I thought you said you wanted to talk?”

Somehow, that catches him off-guard.  _Somehow_. ‘Cause obviously this whole situation (one of his making) has been something that’s kept him awake at night; tossing and turning, so restless and anxious. Yet he thought that, perhaps subconsciously, he could erase his previous request to speak to you from your mind. Prompto doesn’t want you to know that he’s waffling on what he considers to be a huge confession. He doesn’t want you thinking he’s a flake, so he begrudgingly admits, “Yeah. I do...”

“Go on, then,” you lightly encourage, watching the way his pale eyelashes flutter with that downturned gaze. The way he’s behaving like a kicked puppy is making you anxious and, as you’re wont to do, you begin to think the worst. Even though the guy was  _just_  making out with you, your mind goes to: He wants to break up. Totally illogical and yet his shifty eyes make it seem like a very real possibility. So, in your usual manner when it comes to preparing for the worst, you turn impassive.

Honestly? It’s like the worst thing you could do right now. Prompto feeds off of your positive energy. He’s actually like an energy expert: Reading rooms with ease and gauging the overall mood of his companions like it’s his sixth sense. And your impassivity? It’s almost as though he can feel that mental wall of yours as it comes up, shutting him and everything else out; an impenetrable thing. It always hurts a bit when you do this to him and it always will. Even when it’s done in the name of protection- either for your sake or his.

Right now, Prompto  _wants_ to say he loves you and he wants to ask if you love him back. But he chokes the moment you put that wall up. One great fear- the fear of you not returning his feelings- gives way to a lesser but still intense fear. A fear that doesn’t paralyze him as intensely as the fear of you not loving him. A fear that still makes shame burn hot beneath his skin, scorching him right down to the bone. It burns so acutely as he parts his lips to shakily confess, “I feel like I need you to know that I'm... not ready for you to see me.”

It’s quiet a moment, the only sound coming from cheery birds who are obviously unconcerned with the goings on of a self-conscious sharpshooter and an emotionally-stunted mage.

"Sorry?” You break the silence before it can drag on into an ugly thing- a good move, too, because Prom was starting to feel like he might vomit. His ears already buzz; hot and filled with the sound of his own hammering heartbeat. Prompto won’t meet your eyes right now, instead opting to pull up blades of grass and tear them into little confetti-like pieces. You watch that grass confetti fall onto his knee. “I don't think I follow you, Prompto. Can you please explain?"

He doesn’t immediately respond. Courage is a thing that has to be carefully gathered in your presence and Prom feels like he needs to be especially careful if he doesn’t want to seem immature. "(y/n), I... I know I may come across really confident when it comes to this stuff- Don't look at me like that! Let me have my fantasy!" He jokes when you raise your eyebrows playfully but he quickly goes back to looking nervous. "Anyway, uh, the thing is I'm not...  _Ugh_! I don't know how to say this." The confession isn’t confessed. Prom huffs in aggravation.

It’s not unusual for you to see Prompto get frustrated. The guy has little patience for food that takes too long to prepare, video games that don’t autosave, and people who aren’t respectful of those he cares for. However, this frustration is a different animal from all the others. It’s an internalized one; directed toward himself and much less forgiving. With the utmost care, you offer him a placid smile and reassure, "Then take your time. I can wait."

Oh, how a smile can work wonders on him, especially if it comes from you. Because now he doesn’t feel  _as_  foolish for having this fear. He knows you’re not the shallow sort and that fact brings him a bit of comfort. But fears sometimes aren’t so rational. The comfort of your smile is fleeting and Prompto latches onto it before it wears out to finally admit, "I'm not the most confident guy when it comes to how I look and I'm afraid of you seeing me naked. Okay?"

Pure word-vomit. His confession takes a little while for you to decipher, maybe a second that feels like a lifetime. And when you process what he just said to you with those freckled cheeks all red and that pale brow puckered, you quickly try to assuage his fears. "Truth be told, I'm a tad desensitized to nudity. Not to sound insensitive or anything, I'm just trying to... I don't know? Take off some of the pressure? Gladio can be a little careless and we had communal showers in the Spire."

"Ugh.” Apparently you said exactly the wrong thing. Prompto turns his face away and scoffs under his breath, “I don't wanna be compared to  _Gladio_."

Eyes close in mild frustration at yourself and then you scoot closer to Prom, most likely getting some grass stains in your sweater in the process. "I'm  _not_ comparing. But I  _do_  want you to know that I think you're  _absolutely beautiful_ , even if you don't fully appreciate yourself." That blush of his almost feels like a heatwave. You pinch his freckled cheek. "I hope that one day you can learn to appreciate yourself as much as I do. And nothing will happen until you're ready, Prompto. I promise you that."

His hand covers yours, keeping it snug against his hot cheek. A shy smile crosses over his face, eyes downcast but not in a despondent way this time. Gods, you never fail to fluster him. His time with you is almost always filled with giddy moments where you say or do something that may seem minuscule to you but has his heart fluttering restlessly in his chest. Then he falters at your statement when he really thinks about it, and wonders concernedly, "What about you?"

"What about me?" You ask, not understanding where his sudden concern is coming from. That hand of his sure is sweaty now...

As if reading your mind, Prompto releases your hand and begins to fidget with the end of your sweater. Between his thumb and forefinger, he rubs the thick material and gently points out, "Didn't you mean that nothing's gonna happen until we're  _both_  ready?"

 "Oh.” A relieved laugh leaves you, sounding more like a scoff than anything since you’re so damn haughty. Shoulders shrug up and down indifferently, prompting Prompto to knit his pale eyebrows together in confusion. “Well, I've  _been_  ready so I didn't want to be redundant," you admit far too easily. In truth, saying this aloud makes your stomach feel a little odd. That feeling is ignored.

Fingers stop tugging at your sweater in shock. "H-Huh?"

Now it’s  _your_  turn to engage in some awful word-vomit. His stuttered response has you wanting to backpedal desperately. But in an effort to be as haughty and as  _cool_ as you think Prompto thinks you are, you tut, "Not to be terribly blunt, but I've been ready to become sexually intimate with you for a while now, Prompto. I trust you implicitly and have come to realize that you’re the person I’m most at ease with. However, you should know that there's still no rush whatsoever."

The blush that burns his cheeks? Its heat could rival the sun’s. The way you confess the extent of your feelings for him like some sort of android in a sci-fi film? It shouldn’t garner such a visceral reaction from him. Yet it does. Oh, it does. Because your confession goes to all sorts of places and leaves him feeling like he’s running hot and cold at the same time. Blood buzzes like angry hornets and his mind has turned to mush. How do you turn his brain into goop so easily? Is it a spell? Maybe it’s because he’s completely smitten?

Discombobulated, Prompto murmurs, "I... Huh. Okay." The adorable shutterbug’s expression is one of pure shock. He’s confused. Did… Did you actually say all of that or did he imagine it? ‘Cause you’re acting really cool about it (but you’re  _always_ cool, he erroneously thinks) and his head is spinning like a top. Gods, you’re so amazing. Gods, he loves you so much. It’s almost painful how much he loves you. And to hear (he  _thinks_ , ‘cause he’s still about 75% certain he might’ve hallucinated all of that) that you kinda feel the same way?

"Oh, gods. What is it?" You sigh when you realize he’s giving your sweater an embarrassed look. You shouldn’t have said all of that, huh? And you can totally understand if he doesn’t feel…  _that_  way about you. When he turns his eyes up to you like an innocent puppy, his signature look that indicates he’s either pretending not to know what you’re going on about or if you just caught him in the middle of trying to set up a prank, you sigh again and flick his forehead. "You're making a weird face. Did I say something wrong?"

"No! It's just..." Prompto turns his face away to hide his flattered grin. "Gosh, how can you just say it like that?"

That wall is slowly starting to come up again. It’s signaled by hooded eyes and an overall un-emotive expression. "Say what like what?"

Prompto sees that wall coming up and takes a sledgehammer to the damn thing. The blond puts on a smolder, an imitation of how he sees you. An intense look with deviously narrowed eyes and a sultry pout that begs to be kissed hard. "I've been ready to be sexually intimate with you for a while now," he mimics, voice breathy and catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

Fire consumes your neck and face. For a moment, you’re immensely grateful that it’s just the two of you out here in the Nebulawood. Flustered, you shove Prompto’s shoulder and snap, "I  _didn't_  sound like that! And I didn't look at you like that either!"

"You did so!” The perky blond teases, quickly grabbing the hand you used to shove him and bringing it up to press a kiss to your wrist. “Guilty on  _both_  counts, (y/n)!" Hot breath ghosts along your skin as well as a slight grazing of teeth, sending a visible shiver up your spine that darkens those blue eyes.

“Tch. Yeah,  _yeah_ ,” you drawl, reclining back onto the ground once more, taking Prompto with you since he’s still got your hand and is now peppering it with even more feather-light kisses. He follows you down with a dramatic “oof!” before settling onto the ground beside you. Still, that cheesy grin remains on his face. You let him have his laugh at your expense, staring up at the wispy clouds with him continuing to press reverent kisses along your wrist. There’s just the faintest twinge of anxiety in your gut when you  _casually_  cough, “I love you.”

All of that joking around has the sharpshooter properly puffed up with courage to easily and seamlessly reply, voice soft and lips against your skin, heart skipping a beat, “And I love you, too, (y/n). So, so, so, so,  _so_  much.” He kisses you each time to emphasize his point, so grateful to you for saying it first to make it easier. So grateful to you for feeling that way about him. Emotion gets caught up in his throat, making his voice crack on the last word, and he buries his face into your neck to hide it.

That blond hair is soft to the touch, easily gliding between your fingers. Eyes closed, you chuckle when you feel moisture on your neck, “You’re so damn competitive. You always have to one-up me, hm? You can’t just be satisfied with having better jokes  _and_  better aim, huh? You really have to outdo me when it comes to confessing or showing love?”

There’s a somewhat phlegmy laugh against your skin and Prompto pulls himself impossibly close to you. The comforting heat of his body threatens to lull you to sleep out here in the wilderness, under that wide blue sky. A smile is in Prompto’s voice and he replies simply, “Yep. Always.”


	42. Ignis: Duscaen Sunrise Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up directly after your NSFW fun-times with Iggy in chapter 14 of the main fic. Just some fluffy relationship talk.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Mildly NSFW, AU, OOC Galore, Two Nerds Confessing, 0/10 Shouldn’t Confess Like That Again, Going From Smooth as Hell to Smooth as Sandpaper, The Cringe is Real, Mage Magnetism, Intense Tense Flippage, Bad Writing, Dash o’ Angst at the End

**Duscaen Sunrise Cake**

He can’t look you in the eye. 

Funny, that. 

After all of that foreplay, after ordering you around without batting an eye and after doing all sorts of things to you, he can’t look you in the eye. Even after Ignis Scientia nearly takes a knee in the face as you spew obscenities and fling your naked body off of the bed in pursuit of cake like some sort of pastry-obsessed banshee,  _he_  can’t look  _you_  in the eye.

The roles should be reversed, honestly. 

But acting so domineering was just that: An act. 

Ignis discovers that he loved putting on that façade for you. He loved the way you set aside your pride and ego to  _finally_  follow his commands even if it was only in the bedroom- er, the kitchen. To have you being so uncharacteristically submissive for him. The roles  _should_  be reversed but you’re both fighting to be the most awkward person in the caravan.

You’re reeling a bit.

You can’t believe what just happened. It feels like it happened out of nowhere even though things between you and your fellow advisor have been steadily creeping toward a climax for a while now. Flirtation and teasing; advice and fretting over each other. You were high off of endorphins not a moment ago and now anxiety has almost inevitably taken over. What’s supposed to happen now?

Wrapped up in a blanket, you open the oven and nearly pull the scalding pan out with your bare hand. An oven-mitt is jammed onto your hand so hard that you almost bust the seams and you fish the orange cake out of the sweltering oven. There’s a loud clang as the pan is dropped on the stovetop and the oven is shut. The tiny kitchen reeks of caramelized sugar and orange zest. 

You turn the oven off with a sigh.

“Is the cake all right?” Ignis calls from the bedroom, sitting at the foot of the bed. He’s stressed and tense but he doesn’t exactly know what to do about it. This felt like a natural build up in your relationship and he doesn’t regret it, however he doesn’t know what comes next. Of course he would  _like_  to talk to you. In fact, he craves it with his very soul. But talking? He knows very well that that isn’t your strong suit.

Though the two of you have grown close during the time that you’ve spent together, you still have some hiccups with regard to your socialization. It’s as if you always fear that you’re being judged harshly- you grow taciturn and cold yet your eyes remain warm. Ignis has gauged that you can spare roughly twenty-five minutes of conversation with adequate eye contact and minimal fidgeting. After that soft cap is met, you begin to get frugal with your words.

It’s honestly much better than you used to be. Ignis admires the progress that you’ve made and he’s always mindful to make sure he thanks you for every chat and gives your hand a gentle pat just to encourage you. Before, you would just…  _leave_. You’d reach the limits of your comfort and then abruptly bail out even if that meant leaving the tent, a hotel room, or a caravan no matter the weather.

Twenty-five minutes is more than enough time.

“(y/n)?” He calls again, eyebrows furrowing when you take too long to respond. Lithe body leans to the side and he pulls the covers over his lap, elbow planted firmly against the mattress so he can see you. Bare shoulders hunch up, one hand clutching the blanket to your chest as you critically appraise the cake. Green eyes admire the curve of your back.

After another moment you reply, sounding so relieved that one might think you just single-handedly stopped the apocalypse, “It looks fine.”

And it  _does_ look fine. 

Sadly, looks aren’t everything when it comes to baked goods. 

Though the cake has a finely browned crust at the edges of the pan, it’s molten orange mush directly in the middle. The consistency is akin to goo with all the flavor of a bag of sugar that sat next to an unpeeled orange on the kitchen counter. That is to say, it tastes  _absolutely nothing like an orange_. In fact, it somehow tastes like the opposite of an orange, whatever  _that_  is.

Little do you know, you’ve just invented a new flavor of cake.

Congratulations. 

Feet awkwardly shuffle you the short distance back into the bedroom. Iggy readjusts himself to give you room to sit at the foot of the bed with him but you don’t immediately sit, opting to lean in the doorway instead. Sunlight streams into the cramped bedroom from between the blinds of a narrow window above the bed. Pale brown hair is a mess, sticking up in odd places. It brings a smile to your face.

Like this, Ignis admires you as well. Warm light dances along your bare skin and your eyelids flutter, lashes casting shadows along your cheeks. The brunet reaches out a hand for you, green eyes gleaming, and you take it after pretending to think long and hard about the decision. You’re carefully pulled onto the older man’s lap. He only shows affection when you’re alone, so you savor every moment.

Fingers run through that light brown hair, pushing it back and smoothing it down. A wicked grin splits your lips and Iggy queries cautiously, eyes narrowed, “What have you done to my hair?”

“ _Nothing_!” You laugh, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, eyes merely crescents as you grin evilly, trying to refrain from laughing even more. “It looks nice this way,  _trust me_. If you grow it out a bit more and smooth it back just like this, you’ll look killer, Iggs.” Fingers continue to play with his hair for as long as he’ll allow it. For a moment, you think Ignis might be a cat with how he closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation.

The bespectacled brunet hums suspiciously though you can see that secret smile in his eyes when he slowly opens them. “I’ll take your word for it, Iovita.”

“You’d better.  _I’m_  the fashionable one, after all.”

“Is that so?”

Much to the brunet’s disappointment, you cease your lazy attempt at a head massage and scoot off of his lap. The slightly stiff blanket that’s some obscure percentage of cotton and polyester gets tugged around your body even more. Fear is trying to creep up on you. You’re out of your element but you keep reminding yourself that you’re with someone trustworthy. It’s enough to lower your heart-rate for now.

There’s a slight tremor in your voice even as you joke, “Yes, that’s so. You may be the one who looks like he’s posing all the damn time, but my ‘hot college professor chic’ is all the rage.”

The brunet chokes back a startled laugh, turning it into an oh so elegant snort. Okay, he wasn’t expecting his darling mage to say something like  _that_ , though he certainly should have. “I’d argue you’re dressed more like a student than a professor,” Iggy corrects, not one to let your ego go unchecked. He reaches out and grabs your hand. The waver in your voice didn’t go unnoticed, of course.

Fingers lace through his. Your voice comes out stronger now. “I’ve got the cardigan, the button-up, and…” You trail off the longer you consider your attire. Oh, damn. He’s right. Cheeks flush in indignation. Unfortunately for you and your competitive streak, you can’t let him be  _totally_  correct. “Okay, I sorta lose the vibe with the leather pants and boots but you have to admit, I’ve got it goin’ on.”

“What’s this ‘it’ you speak of?” Iggy wonders, voice low. He pulls your hand onto his lap and turns it so it rests palm-up on his thigh. Veins are traced with the tip of his forefinger, touch delicate and feather-light. How can such a simple gesture be so hypnotizing? How can such a simple gesture render you speechless? Coherent thought evades you as you watch Ignis begin to trace random patterns into the sensitive flesh of your wrist.

Emerald eyes dance up to meet yours and you’re snapped out of your trance. “A-Appeal? Some sort of magnetism?” You attempt to clarify.

Ignis huffs a laugh through his nose. “Well, I’ll give you that much.”

“Psh!” You snatch your hand from his grasp and snark, “You gave me more than  _that_  just a little while ago.”

And that lame joke steals the air from the room and chases out the levity. Tension coils low and cold in your gut and green eyes stare at your face but not your eyes. Talk about a bad joke. But maybe it’s for the best? It certainly keeps you two from continuing to try and dance around what you’ve both been dying to ask each other: What does this mean? Does it even mean anything? What’s the fallout?

“About that.” Ignis mercifully breaks the silence. “We should talk, (y/n).”

“Yeah. You’re right,” you agree, already setting about getting dressed just to have something to do; something to get rid of your sudden abundance of nervous energy. “Let’s talk over coffee and cake.”

Clothes are thrown on carelessly (though in Iggy’s case, it’s done elegantly) and the two of you find yourselves together in the kitchen once more. Ignis sets a pot of coffee to brew as you cut into the cake. The second the knife gets absolutely  _no_  resistance when you cut into the middle, you know you’ve messed up. The metal knife lifts and you stare at the orange goop with bits of spongy cake that’s plastered on it.

All of that talk of memorizing the recipe and Iggy getting on your back for not measuring things out comes back to bite you. And it bites  _hard_. Oh,  _no_.  _No_! Should you pretend to drop it? Just let this horrific science experiment fall and splatter against the linoleum tile? Would that be too obvious? The world falls out from under you as you stare at that burnt orange cake, filled with existential dread.

At the other end of the kitchen, Iggy gracefully pours two cups of perfectly brewed coffee and then his (y/n)-senses tingle. Iggy throws you a curious glance to find you standing as still as a statue, hands hovering over the cake. Green eyes zero-in on the bizarre orange plaster on your knife. Teeth bite down on his lip and he turns his face away so you can’t see his shit-eating grin should you happen to rip yourself from your inner turmoil.

“Does the cake need to bake longer?” He queries, moving to set the cups of coffee down at the table, a smile obvious in his voice.

“No!” You practically shout and then immediately cringe. Dammit. He just gave you an out and you threw it against the wall. But the thing is, the outer part of the cake is perfectly baked. It’s the middle portion that’s… gooified. You stare intensely at the brown cake. Your entire life has led up to this moment. It might be time to swallow your pride. For the sake of baked goods, you’ll do this. “Actually…” you sigh, resigned to your fate, “I think I ruined it.”

He’s by your side far too quickly for your liking. I mean, the kitchen is small so it literally only takes him three steps to get to you, but he could’ve taken his time and made his enjoyment of your suffering less obvious. The older brunet tuts and pats your back, letting his hand drift and linger so he can grab your waist and pull you into his side in a comforting hug. “Don’t worry, (y/n). This can be fixed.”

“Can it?” Arms cross. You’re fighting to stay civil. Could he be anymore obvious about how funny he’s finding all of this? Though you adore his smile, you’re tempted to smear orange goop on his beautiful face. “This hasn’t ever happened before,” you reassure him… and yourself. You aren’t a bad baker! You’ve made this cake before! Just…  _something_  went wrong. What went wrong?

As you continue to slowly die on the inside, Ignis expertly puts aluminum foil over the pan and makes sure it’s sealed nice and tight. The oven is set to pre-heat at an adequate temperature and then you’re bussed to the kitchen table; your goopy knife is deposited in the kitchen sink without a second thought. Without making eye contact, Iggy hands you your coffee and admits, “Yes, well, I’ll shoulder my share of the blame.”

“What do you mean?”

The ceramic mug is too hot for you to hold properly so you set it down on the table. It’s a novelty mug advertising scenic Alstor with a picture of a smiling catoblepas in the water; something the caravan owner strategically placed in the cabinet. Wonder if they have a lot of faith in humanity or if they just don’t care if the tacky mug is stolen? It’s going to find its way into your belongings and will be replaced by an enchanted mug that keeps beverages hot.

After taking a delicate sip of piping hot coffee, the brunet strategist confesses, “I was distracting the chef.”

“I knew it!”

“(y/n), I  _hardly_  made a secret of it,” Iggy drawls, the corner of his lips curled at your over-dramatic declaration.

“Still,” you pout, staring down into the caramel depths of your perfectly prepared coffee, “I knew it.”

The conversation lulls into silence. It’s not uncomfortable but it  _isn’t_ comfortable. It’s full of anticipation. There’s a lot of anxiety to be found in anticipation. Both of you are fools. Obviously this attraction is mutual. Obviously you two care deeply about each other. Yet you both wonder if the other cares just as much. The folly of two over-thinkers. Silence is only broken by Ignis standing up to put the cake in the oven.

When he sits back down, you make your move. 

“I’m going to be honest with you, Ignis. This...” and you immediately lose your nerve. What the hell is that about? Eyes glance up and you can see the tension in the brunet’s shoulders at how you abruptly cut yourself off. That bolsters your nerve. “This was nice,” you finish and force yourself to continue, “and I don’t know what it meant to you, but it meant  _a lot_  to me. _Y-You_  mean a lot to me.”

Warmth spreads across Ignis’ cheeks. He sips his coffee. Caffeine may only add to his nerves but it helps clear his head, too. Right now, he hopes the latter outweighs the former. “I feel the same way, (y/n), and I’d like to make my intentions clear to you. We’re both adults here and I’d prefer not to have any ambiguity with regard to our relationship with each other. Is that agreeable?” He slowly closes his eyes.  _Is that agreeable_? Gods.

But you’re unaware of his inner struggle over choosing the right words. “I agree.” You swirl your coffee around. “I’ll be blunt and I’ll keep it simple. I’d prefer to be in a romantic relationship with you. It’d also… kinda be a bonus if it was a long-term thing, but I know that might be pushing it.” That last sentence? It’s rambled, mumbled into your coffee as you take a long pull of scalding caffeine. The pain is worth saving your ego.

Just like that, Ignis Scientia’s day is made. Hell, maybe his year- maybe his  _life_. That charming mage has made his life infinitely brighter since they entered it, there’s no denying that, and he’s overjoyed at the idea of keeping you in it;  _o_ _verwhelmed_  that you feel the same way about him. Though there never should’ve been any doubt about it, it’s the folly of two over-thinkers like (y/n) Iovita and Ignis Scientia.

Maybe you two really are made for each other, because although you’re both dealing with some highly internalized fireworks, you’re cool and collected on the outside. Probably because you analytical thinkers realize that a few more things need to be ironed out before you can start celebrating. Because you aren’t just two lovers in Eos. You have important roles to play and a king to serve.

“I’m glad we’re on the same page. I, too, would quite enjoy a long-term romantic relationship with you, Iovita. Very good.” Iggy unnecessarily pushes his glasses up. This is so painful. The two of you sound like robots. “Now, I think I should be clear: I’d like for this relationship to remain as discreet as possible. When the situation is less tenuous and we’ve all got our bearings, then I propose we discuss making our relationship public.”

“Oh,  _definitely_. I don’t want to make Noctis uncomfortable or have him wondering if my loyalty to him is going to waver because I’ve entered into a relationship with his advisor. Plus, it would be best not to have too many distractions.” And you also don’t want a certain redhead catching wind of something he might be able to exploit. But Iggy seems to take a bit of offense at how cold you are. Do you see this relationship as a  _distraction_?

It’s a fine line to dance on. 

You skillful talkers are both horribly inept at it because you lack the proper experience. This isn’t business talk with foreign diplomats or a discussion of the progress of your studies with magisters. This is supposed to be a confession of affection. The right balance between pragmatism and romanticism isn’t being struck. What should be a high point for you both is quickly becoming unsatisfying and disappointing.

“Agreed,” Ignis stiffly assents. Again, he sips his coffee. It seems like a nervous tic. Where once you could see the excitement in his eyes and that ghost of a smile on his lips, now you detect reservation. He’s pulling away from the conversation; withdrawing into himself even though he logically knows your no-nonsense approach is for the benefit of everyone involved  _even if_  it’s a mood killer. Hell,  _he’s_  the one who started getting businesslike in the first place.

"Isn't this a relief?” You tease, quickly catching on to your mistake, “And to think you were acting  _so_  nervous."

He does a double-take, pulled from a contemplative mood and thrust into a curious one. That’s one thing he’s noticed when he’s with you: He’s always curious about and enthralled by (y/n) Iovita. No matter how sad or lonely he feels, he tends to keep it to himself. But with you...? You seem to notice. Not that the others don’t. It’s just that you’re rather skilled in this department.

A terrible conversationalist with a firm grasp on nuanced expression. Imagine that. But it works wonderfully in this dynamic filled with poignant pauses and witty banter. Ignis will be upset and he’ll try to hide it but here comes (y/n) to politely badger him or do something small but immensely endearing, like ride out to a convenience store to buy him fancy canned coffee.

The strategist watches you for a moment from across the table at the cramped breakfast nook. That evil grin is on your face as you wait for his response, like some sort of imp. He realizes that he’s so very much in love with you. With a dignified scoff, he asks bluntly, " _I_ was acting nervous? Did you happen to black out for the duration of that conversation, Iovita?"

You scoff right back. "You insult me, sir!"

"I suppose it's not difficult to insult someone so dramatic," muses Ignis, taking another sip of that damn coffee.

"Me? Dramatic?” A hand dramatically rests on your chest as if the man just stabbed you. “You're lucky you're my beautiful bespectacled brunet boyfriend or I'd have turned you to ice by now."

"That's quite a mouthful,” Iggy points out, smirking into his mug. It’s a bit immature how his heart leapt when you called him your boyfriend. “Is that my new nickname?"

"Yes. It suits you, since you're a mou-" You stop yourself. No.  _No_. You have to commit to the dirty joke. "It suits you because  _you're_  quite the mouthful yourself."

"(y/n), honestly?" He's blushing now. At least there’s  _that_  pay-off, ‘cause you’re dead inside.

You reach out across the table and rest a hand on his forearm. Expression is somber, eyes downcast a moment before gazing into his. "During these private moments together, please let me have my awful jokes even if they make you die on the inside."

"As long as you acknowledge that they're terrible, I'll endure them, darling." Now  _you're_  flustered. Ignis catches on quite quickly. There’s something evil in his eyes. "Is that all it takes to fluster you? Diminutives?"

That hand retreats hesitantly as you mumble a barely audible confession. "They sound nice coming from you."

"Do they, my love?" Iggy wonders, tilting his head, observing you closely. Oh, how he enjoys making you squirm with just a look and a single word.

Sinking into your chair, you grumble, " _Ignis_..."

"Yes, dearest?"

“You’re such a tease.  _Anyway_ ,” you simper in an attempt to flip that wonderful script, “sneaking around with you is a  _major_  turn-on, Scientia.” When those emerald eyes widen marginally, you allow a sinful smirk to curl your lips. Wicked eyes are hooded and you cup your chin in your palm, elbow resting on the table.

“Very funny, Iovita,” Iggy drawls, cheeks flushing.

“I’m just saying!” With a wicked grin, you stand and walk around the table to scoot into his side of the breakfast nook with him. You loop your arm through his and then slowly walk your fingers up his bicep. A grin spreads across his face at that lame act. How are you so cheesy and cute? “I wouldn’t be  _mad_  if we had a repeat of today. Especially since we got all of that serious talk out of the way,” you add, just to make sure he understands that you meant no offense earlier. Though he’s out of his foul mood, you want to be doubly sure.

“My, my. You’re certainly impertinent,” Ignis scolds, feigning offense. He appreciates how you look after him in that strange, teasing way of yours.

“Flirting with insubordination is my schtick,” you gently inform him, going to work on his belt buckle and then the button of his pants. The zipper is pulled down fast enough to be audible. Eager, evil fingers pull at the waistband of his underwear before letting it go with a snap. “You should know that by now.”

“We have a cake in the oven,” Iggy pointlessly reminds you as your fingers find their way to his underwear’s waistband once more. Instead of snapping the elastic, however, they dip below just as you press an open-mouthed kiss below his ear. Breath huffs out of him and with it he reprimands you once more, “We’re in a kitchen. This is  _highly_  inappropriate, Iovita.”

Iggy knows how dumb that comment is considering what happened in this very same kitchen not even an hour ago. It’s said for comedic effect. Your laughter is his goal. 

Gods, he loves the sound of your laughter. It’ll wake him up in the dead of night; have his heart quickening as he realizes he can’t see anything, as he feels about him, trying to find where you’re supposed to be sleeping next to him until he realizes- until he  _remembers_  that you left him a long time ago. It’s a sound that will haunt him; the ghost of you ever-present.

But for now, it’s a good sound.

Ignis tilts his head back and smiles as you laugh into his neck.


	43. Gladiolus: Absolute Perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place right after your NSFW stuff with Gladio in chapter 14 of the main fic. Just fluff, a dash of smut, and some relationship talk. Errybody gets this nonsense in each route. Enjoy dying on the inside, y’all.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Second Hand Shame, OOC Galore, NSFW, You’re a Master of Black Magic and Cringe Magic, One Scarred Blond Coming Up, Territorial Mage, Gladio the Thief, Cold Burgers, All That Cringe When it Only Took One Sentence to Solve Your Problems

**Absolute Perfection**

Warm sunshine streams in through flimsy blinds, illuminating particles of dust in the air. The cramped room is  _full_ of dust now that you really look around. It’s kinda disgusting. Ignis might have a conniption fit if he were in your position, in fact  _you_  almost do. Upper lip curls and brow furrows the longer you take in the state of the bedroom in the caravan nestled in a parking lot of an Alstor gas station.

“I think the glamor is wearing off,” you inform your brunet companion, “this place is a rat-hole.”

Gladiolus rolls his eyes. “You slept here fine last night, Magey.”

“Uh-huh. Which is why I said the glamor is  _wearing off_. Do you  _never_  listen to me?”

“You’re one uppity mage,” the Shield breathes, sounding like he doesn’t mean it in the slightest, forever teasing you no matter the circumstances. Not once has he taken his eyes off of you, in fact, he reaches over and cups your cheek now. It’s a bit disquieting, considering the state of your undress and his. Perhaps  _that’s_ why you’re so fascinated with the sheer volume of dust in this bedroom? Who knows?

All you  _do_  know is that you find yourself sinking further and further into the mattress with its worn-out springs. At this rate, you might disappear into it. That’s your goal. Sink right into the mattress and live there forever so you don’t have to  _talk_. That’d be easier, wouldn’t it? Except you also feel like that’d be  _unfair_ , too. For the man who has always been there by your side with a shoulder to cry on, an ear readily bent, and some tough-love advice, it’s unfair.

For him, you’ll overcome the minor inconvenience of embarrassment.

You’ll overcome it for  _yourself_ , too, because while you’re dying of embarrassment you’re also dying of curiosity. Though you said “I think of you as more than a friend,” the paranoid side of yourself points out that Gladio never said the same. You two went from a rather one-sided confession, to a crappy movie marathon, to 69-ing each other in the span of an hour. For all you know, this is a fling and you aren’t really sure how you feel about that.

Gladio watches various emotions flicker across your face.

There’s something to be said about Gladiolus Amicitia’s elocutionary skills. Back in Insomnia, he was known to be quite the charmer. Though a bit rough around the edges at times, he’s a people person and he’s good with his words. Somehow, all of this is forgotten right now as he stares down into your face. Fingers gently brush the sweat from your brow. You leave him speechless. His thumb ghosts over your bottom lip.

You’re a bit of a smooth talker, too. Well, only when under duress or when you’re trying to pull a fast one over on someone. Neither is occurring right now. So you, sadly, remain tongue tied. Eyes are wide as you stare up at the Shield. The tenderness in his expression has your heart fluttering. Gladiolus can feel it, his forearm resting across your chest (and you think this might be strategic, the sneaky bastard).

After the laughter, after the jokes, the two of you are left with unasked and unanswered questions. Lame banter is the fallback of this dynamic. One of you is angry at the other? Make a sarcastic joke that actually irritates the other but also makes them laugh so that the door to conversation is opened. It’s the preferred fallback, really. Too bad you’re both a little leery of making a joke of what just happened between you two.

Right now, you’re physically uncomfortable. Not emotionally! But  _physically_? Definitely. Gladio is on top of the bedsheets, leaving you both completely naked, the bastard. He’s honestly fine with it, one leg over yours and totally unfazed by the way the air cools the sweat and saliva on his skin. The sunlight gives Gladiolus a halo-effect that you find rather fitting right now. But you can’t appreciate it for too long.

Some strange movie plays on the TV. It’s supposed to be futuristic but it was made about two decades ago and dates itself horribly by being set in a year that’s already come and gone. Its synthesizer-based soundtrack that’s broken up by the cheap sound of “laser pistols” is what annoys you enough to break the silence. You put your hand over Gladio’s and say, voice a bit gravelly given your previous activities, “I need to take a shower.”

“What?” He blinks, a bit bemused though this is highly typical of his fastidious mage.

“A shower,” you say slower, irritation evident in your voice. “I  _need_  one. Pardon me for not wanting your spit between my legs for the rest of the day.”

Cheeks burn bright red at your crass comment. Damn, you even made  _yourself_  blush, you nerd. Gladio fights off a snort at your expense to ask, “Mind if I come with you?” And does he love that he just made your blush even darker? Obviously. It’s like one of his top ten favorite hobbies. He doesn’t miss a damn beat with his banter.

But you? You miss a beat or several. It’s such a Gladio response and yet you gape up at him like he’s just taken you off-guard. As your brain short-circuits, the Shield toys with your hair, admiring the strands between his middle and forefinger. He’s not offended by your delayed response. In fact, he finds the way you gape your mouth like a fish out of water highly endearing. Then again, he finds almost  _everything_  you do endearing.

The Shield has it bad for the Mage.

As usual, he allows you to take your time. Gladiolus is very much aware of your issues with communication. Considering His Highness has always been rather awkward in the socialization department, Gladio quickly found himself taking the arcane advisor under his wing. But he’s always conscious of the fact that you’re crafty and can fend for yourself. Gods save him if he ever gives the impression that he’s trying to  _protect_  you.

Right now, however, it’s a little difficult. Trying not to come across as protective, that is. ‘Cause he feels  _highly_  protective of you after having sex and he’s telling himself  _not_  to get too far ahead of himself here. For all he knows, this was just recreational sex for you and you aren’t looking for anything serious. You’ve always been rather aloof. Maybe he should’ve been more clear beforehand...

Finally, you sputter, “Ye-Yeah. I mean, no!  _No_. I don’t mind.” The bed shifts under you as you sit upright, blatantly ignoring the teasing grin on the older brunet’s face. Gladiolus crooks his finger and traces his knuckle down your spine. It seems he really enjoys touching your bare skin right now. Later, you’re going to find that when the two of you are walking behind the others, the Shield’s hand will occasionally find its way up the back of your shirt.

From his reclined position behind you, the brunet drawls, a grin evident in his voice, “Uh-huh. I understood what ya meant the first time, Magey.”

“Right. Let’s go.” Feeling so exposed, you waste no time scooting off of the bed and snatching your bag up on your way out of the room. The door to the bathroom is immediately to the left and you’re  _immediately_ throwing yourself through it. It’s a cramped space when it’s just you going to the bathroom by yourself. It’s nearly impossible for you to maneuver around the tiny bathroom with the statuesque Shield joining you.

Linoleum tile is cold beneath your bare feet as you make your way to the shower. A squeak of metal on metal precedes the hushed cascade of cold water against the plastic tub. It’s going to take a minute before the water will run hot. You take this time to hastily and thoroughly brush your teeth. Everything is done under observant amber eyes. An award should be given to you for being able to keep cool under such harsh conditions.

But honestly you’ve sort of put yourself in a trance-like state in order to ignore the nearly un-ignorable fact that you’re naked; feeling cold in places that you shouldn’t, getting eyed-up by the brunet in spots that make you blush. Is it foolish of you to be so self-conscious even after having Gladio go down on you? Even after going down on him?  _You_  don’t think so. Which is why you’re off in La La Land while the water heats up.

For Gladiolus Amicitia, this is funny as hell  _but_  he has enough tact not to laugh. To have the haughty mage so uncharacteristically passive is both humorous and eerie. If you were your usual self right now, you would’ve already made some biting joke at his expense for staring at your ass. This change in your demeanor slowly and steadily makes the Shield uneasy. ‘Cause he’s not sure if you’re just spaced out or if this is your way of showing regret.

The idea of the latter makes Gladio feel like he’s going to vomit.

Okay, what happened? What went wrong in the time between you laughing with him in bed and now? He was so sure that everything was okay. You’d even called him “so lame” in that teasing, endearing way of yours. But, having had previous relationships, Gladiolus knows that  _a lot_  can happen in a short period of time. Realization can dawn on someone. Regret can be made manifest in strange ways.

Amber eyes watch closely as you move the floral shower curtain aside and test the water with your hand. A contented hum comes from the back of your throat before you finally make eye contact with the Shield and assure him, “The water’s fine.” You step into the shower and close your eyes. Gladiolus waits a moment before joining you, closing the curtain behind him. It’s a tight squeeze, to say the least. Comically tight.

Gladio hits his head on the shower head practically the second he joins you and swears, “Dammit!”

All it takes is a bit of slapstick comedy to ease the tension. ‘Cause now instead of being all tense about the possibility of springing unwanted relationship talk on the Shield, you’re laughing at Gladiolus’ expense. He pretends to be offended. “You’re such a dork, Gladio,” you fake-scold, grinning at how he rubs the back of his head after backing up into the shower head to give you room. “Come here. Let me look.”

That head of thick dark hair is ducked down and you set about probing for a nonexistent wound. The Shield rests his head against your shoulder, face in your neck as the two of you are pelted with warm water. Fingers thread through his hair, stroking and soothing the welt he just gave himself. Strong arms encircle you. If you keep at it like this, Gladiolus is liable to fall asleep right now.

“How bad is it?” He murmurs into your neck, lips moving against your skin.

You tut and you shake your head sadly, a difficult feat to pull off given the Shield’s position. “I’ve got bad news, Gladiolus. I’m afraid we’re going to have to take it off.”

“My head?” Gladio asks, sounding so drowsy. There’s a smile evident in his voice and you can feel that sleepy smile growing by the second at your awful joke.

“Yeah.”

“The whole thing?”

“Yes, I suppose. You never use it anyway,” you gently inform with a shrug that bumps his ear.

Though he gives you a rumbling chuckle, he sounds irritated. “Remind me never to play along with your lame-ass jokes again.”

“I’m hearing that you’re angry and  _yet_...” you trail off, pointedly stroking the back of his head which still rests against your shoulder. Although pride urges the Shield to remove himself from you, he’s far too content to do so. How are you so damn comfortable? The warmth of you draws him in and makes him close his eyes. He doesn’t recognize the danger of this situation until the world begins to tilt and you scream.

Gladio catches himself against the slick shower wall, one arm hooked around your waist to keep you from falling. You’ve thrown your arms around his neck in an attempt to save yourself. The two of you stare at each other, wide-eyed and very much awake. The Shield is about to laugh and apologize when someone bangs on the door. A panicked voice calls, “(y/n)! Are you okay?!”

Those eyes that Gladiolus loves so much only get wider, mouth popping open in a silent, horrified scream. It’s the worst person in the world to be standing on the other side of that flimsy door. A blond with a good heart and good intentions but loose lips. You’ve died a million times in Gladio’s arms yet you somehow muster up the strength to call, “Yeah! Just slipped!”

“Oh,” Prom laughs, sounding so relieved. “Good. Not good that you slipped! Ah, you know what I mean. Anyway, I’m gonna go catch a few Z’s before we head out again.”

Time stops. You have a few options here in this brief second. Because you  _know_  what’s in that bedroom.

Option One: You can throw your naked self out of this bathroom and keep Prompto from entering the bedroom. Option Two: You can just stay here forever; never leaving ever again. You’ll make a home for yourself in this cramped bathroom in the caravan here in northern Alstor. Maybe you can get the caravan’s owner to bring you food? You’ll haunt the caravan as the bathroom gremlin.

But your moment of contemplation passes.

Footsteps make it to the bedroom and come to an abrupt halt. Prompto has just died. Blue eyes take in the clothes strewn about the room and the plastic bag of condoms and lube on the floor. He suddenly realizes you  _aren’t_ alone in the shower. He dies again before moving slowly back to the caravan’s door, calling out, voice kind of high, “Actually, I’m kinda hungry. I’m, uh, gonna go get some food. Want anything?”

With a straight face, Gladio calls, “Can you order me a burger from the Crow’s Nest?”

It’s silent for a long,  _long_  time before Prompto responds, “Sure thing, Gladio. (y/n)? Want anything?”

Staring beyond that floral shower curtain, you ask, “Is it too much to ask you to kill me?”

Prompto laughs, obviously still tense but relieved to know that you’re feeling just as awkward, “I’ll just get you the same thing.”

Once the profusely sweating blond is out of the caravan, shutting the door carefully behind himself, he immediately runs into Noctis and shrieks. The brunet winces and takes a step back. “Gosh. Sorry for running into you but you don’t have to scream about it.”

“Wh-? Yeah!  _That’s_  why I screamed,” Prompto laughs nervously. His best friend gives him a funny look before attempting to side-step him to get to the caravan. Prompto dives for the raven-haired royal like a drowning man to a buoy. “No! Don’t go in there!”

The brunet shrugs the blond off, irritated. “What? Why?”

“It-! Uh...” The sharpshooter’s forehead is slick with sweat and he’s jittery like he just drank several cups of coffee.

Noct takes in his best friend’s disheveled appearance before slowly asking, “What’s going on?”

“I think… Um, well, (y/n) and Gladio are just finishing up.”

“What do you mean, finishing-? Oh.” Noct suddenly looks uncomfortable. “Right. Uh.” He gestures vaguely toward the Crow’s Nest. “Wanna get some food, then?”

“Was just headed, there, buddy,” Prompto sighs, running his hand through his hair and speed-walking to the diner.

While that mini-drama concludes, you slowly bang your forehead against the shower’s wall. Gladio watches all the while, dark eyebrows knitted together and amber eyes simmering. He’s allowing himself to brood a bit. All of that tension from before is back as he watches you. You regret what happened, don’t you? You hate that Prompto knows because now the others will surely know, right?

Just as the Shield begins to work himself up, you suddenly ask, pausing mid-assault on the shower’s wall, “Can I ask you something?”

The lack of inflection or emotion in your voice has him on edge. But he’s encouraging and open all the same. “C’mon, (y/n). You know you can. Always.”

Why is that so embarrassing? How genuine Gladiolus is has you flushing even though the water is beginning to go cold. The Shield will let you know at every turn that you can lean on him, he’ll encourage you every time. In the face of such kindness, you whip around and squirt shampoo into the palm of your hand just to have something to do. You go through the motions of a strict hygiene regimen. Gladio follows suit.

After you’ve shuffled around the Shield to get directly under the shower head, you ask with your back to him, “What is this, Gladiolus?”

“Hm?” Gladio looks around, pausing in the middle of sudsing up with  _your_  lavender body-wash. “A shower?”

Teeth bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. This is a serious matter. “No, smart-ass.  _Us_. Is this like a casual thing, or...?”

Those butterscotch eyes burn into your back, watching soap bubbles glide off of you and swirl down into the drain at your feet. He wonders if he’s been too clingy today. He wonders if he’s pushed your boundaries and  _that’s_  why you’re asking this. Not that he’s upset that you’re asking! Honestly, he’s relieved that this question is being asked in the first place. And he won’t dodge it. He’s going to be brutally honest with you even if he fears for his ego.

“No. It’s not a casual thing. But you’re not gonna hurt my feelings if this was just sex for you. ‘Cause I’m okay with that, too.”

The sound of water beating against plastic is suddenly too loud. You stare straight ahead, stunned at his smooth response, before remembering yourself and finally sputtering out, “It-It  _wasn’t_  just sex, Gladiolus. I want to be with you.” And then you wish you were dead because you don’t sound a fraction as cool as Gladio sounded. For his part Gladiolus doesn’t give a damn about how cool or how lame you sound. All that matters is that you feel the same.

He’s grinning like a fool. Dammit, he wishes you’d look at him. “You’re too damn cute.”

“And  _you’re_  getting on my nerves by constantly calling me cute,” you snap back, feeling far too hot considering the water is definitely on the cold side. “I’m an Iovita mage. I could raze entire nations to the ground.” You wipe the conditioner from your eyes. “Probably. I’ve never razed anything before.”

“But you’d look cute doin’ it,” Gladio baits.

“Shut  _up_.”

Muscular arms cross over his chest, that lavender body-wash drenched loofa still in his hand. “Tch. Fine. But I’ll only shut up ‘cause you’re my lo-”

“If you call me ‘lover’ I’m going to throw up,” you lamely threaten.

He laughs. It’s low and rumbling and shoots right through you. “And you called  _me_  a dork? Dork Mage.”

“ _Wow_ ,” you drawl, finally turning around to face him just like he wanted. “Your unparalleled wit never ceases to amaze me. Perhaps you should have an entry in my grimoire: Gladiolus the Glib. It’ll just be a list of every shitty nickname you’ve ever come up with. It might get mistaken for a list of curses to instantly kill one’s foes.”

“Is that right?” Gladio murmurs, reaching out and tugging you closer. He’s trying to be sexy. It’s a wasted effort, considering you two didn’t have much space between you to begin with. Still, the sentiment isn’t lost on you. The heat of his body makes your eyelids flutter, makes it harder for you to breathe. One hand rests on your hip and the other stays on your back despite the loofa. “My nicknames instantly kill you?”

“On several occasions, they’ve come close to it,” you admit, sounding rather breathless. Molten gold eyes hold yours. Heartbeat pounds in your ears when that hand on your hip comes down between your thighs. Skilled fingers slowly get to work on you. Breath comes out in huffs, forehead resting against Gladio’s chest, arms wrapping around him tighter and tighter as his motions become more fervent.

Tongue swirls around his nipple and he pulls you even closer, increases his speed when you graze your teeth against him. And then you’re ripped out of the mood when a familiar scent wafts up to your nose. Eyes snap open and narrow. You push away from Gladiolus and scoff, “Is-? Six, is that my body-wash?  _You’re_  the one who’s been using it up this whole time? I’ve gone through five bottles in the past month!”

The Shield blushes on top of the redness that was already in his cheeks, the evidence of his thievery pinned between his fisted hand and the small of your back. There’s no escaping judgment now. “It… I just like the way it smells.”

“I scolded Prompto about it! I thought it was  _him_!”

“Really?” Gladiolus laughs and then abruptly stops himself at your dirty look. “Damn. You take your shower-gel way too seriously, Magey.”

Arms cross over your chest, feeling a bit embarrassed now that you think about it. “It’s a good brand,” you murmur in your defense. “And besides, who’s on trial, here?  _I_ didn’t do anything wrong!  _You’re_  the little sneak thief!”

“All right, all right.” The Shield is properly scolded, though you can’t tell from looking at him since he’s biting his lip, barely keeping from laughing at you. The hand on the small of your back begins making circular motions, sudsing up the loofa with that lavender shower-gel once more. He moves with those tight, circular motions up your back and then up your chest. “I won’t use it again. But since I  _already_  have some on this sponge...”

One hand clamps down on his to keep him from moving down your stomach. You look exasperated. “Six, Gladdy. You use my loofa, too?”

Now? Now he  _can’t_  keep from laughing at you.

To Gladiolus Amicitia, you’re absolutely perfect.

Lips are on your neck and he teasingly gets you all sudsed up with stolen lavender shower-gel on a stolen loofa. You complain all the while about his brazen thievery despite the grin on your face. Once you’re washed off, your back is pressed against the cold tiled wall, a stark contrast to the hot tongue that laps insistently between your thighs. Strong hands keep your legs spread. Your fingers thread through Gladio’s dark hair as his head moves eagerly.

Prompto and Noctis awkwardly wait for you and Gladiolus in the diner. The burgers are ice cold.


	44. Gladiolus: A Worthy Opponent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs after Gladio gets back from his trial. It’s just fluff in this, y’all. Fluff and some slightly hurt feelings that don’t stay hurt for too long. Mild Episode Gladiolus spoilers but I kept it super vague for those of you who haven’t played it/watched someone play it.
> 
> Enjoy?
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, OOC Galore, Intense Tense Flippage, Fluff, Mage Egos, Shield Egos, Everyone Has a Damn Ego, Established Relationship, In Which You Get Played  & Gladio Loves Doing the Playing

**A Worthy Opponent**

“You’re back.”

Gladiolus’ sober expression brightens at the sight of you before he can temper it into something a bit more irritated. Because he _is_  irritated. He came back from a harrowing journey, eager to see everyone, and when he asked where you were he was met with shrugs and a knowing look from Ignis.

It was your usual routine. Somehow, he hadn’t expected to come back while you were in the middle of your  _usual_  routine. That annoying habit of skulking off alone with nothing but your scooter, your staff, and your familiar. Gladio eyes you up and down, gaze lingering on the plants that fill your arms, roots and all.

You look good, he notes. Healthy and happy like you've been eating and getting enough sleep. Good. He'd told Iggy to hound you about that. And there's that usual glint in your eye like you're up to no good. That's (y/n), though. Always up to no good. Damn roguish, dorky, bookworm mage. Gods, he missed you.

There’s a squeak and amber eyes fixate on a brown field mouse that rests on your shoulder, pink toes digging into your sweater, beady black eyes boring into him. He swears it’s staring at his new scar. He’s alone at the campfire, everyone else having gone to bed long ago. Hell, it’s almost morning… your usual,  _annoying_  routine.

The Shield leans back in his chair, looking warm from the orange light of the fire though his expression is cold and brooding. “Yeah. I’m back.”

This scene… You’re struck with a bizarre sensation of déjà vu and immediately place where you’ve seen something like this before. 

Gladio reclined but tense in his chair, expression disapproving in the dim light. Some cliché in films directed at teens where the parent waits in a darkened room for the kid who stayed out past curfew. Gladdy is looking at you like you just stayed out past curfew. Well, then.

“My observational skills have never once failed me,” you joke, hiding your disquiet with snark. The mouse squeaks in your ear, informing you that it’s going out to “hunt” for the rest of the night and will be back before sunrise. Wordlessly, you grab its small body and gently set it down so it can scamper off into the desert.

Now you’re acutely aware of the awkward atmosphere. Well, the tense atmosphere. Actually… awkward  _and_  tense? There’s frustration and weird sexual tension mingling in with relief and joy. It makes for a bizarre amalgamation of emotion. One that your awkward ass tries and fails to avoid.

You saunter on over to the chair that was purposefully left out for you and shrug off your bag before you sit down. Dirt is brushed off of the plants you collected and you carefully wrap them in cloth before placing them in your bag. This is all done under Gladiolus Amicitia’s simmering gaze.

Stars sparkle up above in the midnight sky. Cardigan is hugged closer to your body against the coolness of the desert night. A breeze kicks up and has dirt swirling around and getting in your eyes before you have the mind to flick your hand in the air to send it away with the weakest force spell you can muster.

With a shy smile, you finally look at your companion and freeze at the sight of his latest scar. Now it’s his turn to feel awkward. Because you? Damn. You have the most intense stare of anyone he’s ever met. It’s unblinking and, dare he say it, omniscient? That stare always feels like it peers right into his soul.

Amber eyes look away but wicked eyes remain.

“Can you finally tell me what your little trip was about? I felt bad for having to deflect every time Iris texted or called me.” A smile that doesn’t reach your eyes graces your face. “By the way, I can safely say that persistence runs in the family. You damn Amicitias are  _relentless_.”

And like that, a bit of tension ebbs away… at least it does until Gladio looks at you again and sees that you’re wearing that ice mask that he and the others swear can turn someone to stone. Funny how he faced off against the Blademaster and now has to face off against another worthy opponent.

He tells you just that. Not the part about you being another opponent!  _Gods_ , no! Gladio doesn’t feel like dying by some nerdy mage’s hand tonight. Not even one as cute and charming as you… though you still look like you might kill him even though he only talks about the Blademaster and the intent behind his trip.

Are you mad? No. Maybe a little.  _Obviously_  everything worked out, but you would’ve liked to have known that he was going off to risk his life in the first place. Sure, he wouldn’t have allowed you to tag along and you wouldn’t have pushed your luck, but you would’ve at least outfitted him with some damn fine enchantments.

Your daemon had immediately hissed the name “Gilgamesh” in your ear the second Gladiolus departed. Then it asked if you’d like it to dwell in the shadow of the Shield’s step and to render aid if necessary. Such a tempting offer. It was almost painful to refuse.

“So, a test of your mettle, hm?” Gladio watches as you cross your legs in that prim way of yours and drum your fingertips against your knee. He never fails to feel like he’s being judged when you do this. Inquiring eyes hold his gaze. “Sounds reasonable. I… can understand why you’d undertake something of that nature.”

This is all said patiently, kindly, even as you develop a tic in your right eye that Gladio thankfully can’t see in the dimness of the campfire but feels blatantly obvious to you. It has you self-consciously rubbing your eyes. The brunet thinks you’re just tired due to the hour. A mercy, that. Oh, how you  _loathe_  having any sort of involuntary tells to ruin your impassive mask.

When he doesn’t immediately respond, instead looking a bit flustered, you add, “Who knows? I might just go off on my own to have a little journey of self-discovery, myself.”

Amber eyes glint. “You go on trips all the time, Magey.”

So, he’s still salty that you weren’t here to greet him when he got back? You knew it was a possibility that he might return while you were out but it wasn’t as if you could put everything on hold on the off-chance that today would be the day that he returned.

While Noct was solving an energy crisis in Lestallum, you’d been tasked with turning in bounties. Then you asked for temporary leave to follow up on some treasure spots the tipster had mentioned and Ignis was the one to clear you. Honestly, it was Gladio’s fault for being so damn dramatic with his return.

If you’d known he was with Noct in the power plant, you wouldn’t have fallen down so many rabbit holes to the point that you needed your liege to text you where everyone was camping out for the night ‘cause you’d been gone all damn day.

Lips purse with this thought in mind. It wouldn’t be the first time Gladiolus’ surprising flare for the dramatic has inconvenienced one or both of you. First you almost fell off of a cliff and then you almost killed him with a force-punch  _at his insistence_. 

“Uh. No. I’m _always_  back within 24 hours.”

“So, how long would you make your journey of self-discovery?” Gladio drawls and you take your time answering. This puts Gladiolus on edge. Are you actually serious or is this just another one of those damn jokes that you always take way too far?

“Well,” you hum, eyes turning up to the sky, “anything concerning magic and learning new spells can take a while. And I  _have_  been wanting to contribute to my family grimoire, as all Iovita scholars worth their salt aspire to do. So… a few weeks? A month? A decade?”

The brunet is scowling at you now, dark eyebrows knitted together. “Not funny.”

“I’m  _always_  funny,” you simper condescendingly.

And that seems to be that. The last bit of iciness is gone from your face and you’re fixing him with one of those infamous crooked smiles of yours, the one that always turns him to goo. Posture is relaxed and the two of you ease into comfortable silence.

The Shield knew you would be understanding. Someone who is filled with as many insecurities as you and having as kind a nature as you obviously wouldn’t hold this against him. But that was never a fear of his in the first place. The thing that makes him uneasy is how frigid you went when you saw his new  _scar_.

‘Cause when it comes to him or any of the other guys getting injured, Gladio can never quite figure out who loses their shit the most: You or Prompto. But while the blond yells out and is kinda prone to crying, (y/n) Iovita goes quiet, turns to stone, and looks as though they’re about to raze and level the world in the name of justice. And the brunet is pretty sure you actually can...

“I'm happy that you were successful,” you say and Gladio realizes you’ve both been quiet for too long. 

Wait a minute... Did your silence mean you were  _actually_  serious about that journey thing? Gods, he hopes not. Though you’re powerful, you’re easily felled. He’s always thought that was a rather strange duality for the Iovita mage. But right now he needs to engage in the conversation and not worry about hypothetical mage quests that are sure to make him go prematurely gray.

Broad shoulders shrug. "Yeah."

A low whistle leaves your lips. “Wow.  _Gilgamesh_? Quite an accomplishment.” A smirk quirks your lips at his relaxed posture. “We all missed you."

He smiles faintly. "Hm."

" _I_  missed you." Amber eyes find you once more. There's a familiar evil grin on your face. "Oh, I was absolutely  _beside myself_  with grief. I had no one to share gross food with, no one to argue with... It was so  _boring_. Did you miss me as much as I missed you? I think it might be impossible, though."

You're looking at him from beneath your lashes in that daemonic way of yours; chin slightly dipped down, teeth nothing but a faint glimmer from between lightly parted lips, smile just a crooked, wicked little thing. He's being let off the hook. Now the mage has their fun.

His cheeks feel warm. "I did. I'd say I missed ya  _more_ , Magey."

"Impossible. Impossible, I say!"

Feeling just as devious as you, the Shield jerks his chin up and states, “I did. C’mere and I’ll show you just how much.”

“Hm...” you hum softly and lean back further in your chair. “Nah. I’m comfortable right where I am. Besides, we  _both_  know I missed you more because you can never beat me at anything. I’m just better than you.”

Well, you just went from cute to annoying as hell real damn fast. Funnily enough, that’s something Gladiolus missed. However, he isn’t about to let you get away with it. Amber eyes flash. “I missed having someone around who constantly gets bodied and incapacitated by flan, imps, spiracorns, anaks, anak  _calves_ -”

“Shut up! They’re like, all legs! And they  _kick_!” 

You’re completely indignant, cheeks feeling hot and body practically sweating in your cardigan despite the coolness of the night. Those butterscotch eyes are like hellfire, a sinful smirk crawling across the Shield’s face. Oh, the many hilarious ways that his “worthy opponent” has been humbled. 

Gladio continues listing off the enemies you’ve been thwarted by as if you never interrupted him, “-goblins, killer bees-”

“Emphasis on  _killer_.”

“-gaiatoads-”

“I was covering Noct and it rolled over on me! I fell in service to my king!”

“-tonberries-”

“They have  _knives_!”

He plays you so easily. With each enemy and past shame that’s brought up, you stand and begin pacing as you argue your case. A litany of excuses fall from your lips. Amber eyes watch as the keyed up mage paces in front of him, occasionally stopping to put their hands on their hips and defend their honor.

“-flan-”

Feet pause in their anxious stride and you turn to glower down at the brunet. Damn that superior look of yours. The way your wicked eyes are slightly hooded and you gaze down your nose at him has always been a secret turn-on of Gladio’s. Especially when you sneer... Is something wrong with him?

“You already said that.”

“I know,” Gladio shrugs, still sitting pretty on his chair, and drawls, “I just think that one’s pretty damn embarrassing.”

The fuzzy memory of getting body-slammed into a stone wall and knocked unconscious by a flan is definitely one of your low points... It has you reeling even now, totally distracted from the evil brunet who reaches out toward you like lightning to grab you around the waist and pull you onto his lap.

Has your face always been made of fire? You can’t really recall. It has Gladio smirking to feel how hot your cheek is against his bare chest before you can put a bit of distance between the two of you. That haughty persona is maintained as you cross your arms and narrow your eyes at the Shield. 

“Look at you,” you sneer, oozing derision. “You take out the Blademaster and suddenly you think you’re the cool kid on the block. Pathetic.”

He barks a laugh at that, a dorky grin on his face, and gives you a squeeze. “Which you’ll  _never_  be if you keep sayin’ things like that, Magey.”

A huff puffs out of you at that sobering news. Pouting, you lean back against Gladio’s chest. The two of you stay like this for a while before you make another move. Turning your face toward Gladio’s, you lean up and press a delicate kiss to his new scar and pepper kisses down his face until you reach his mouth.

As he pulls you impossibly close, teeth nipping your bottom lip and drinking in your breathy gasps, Gladiolus Amicitia marvels over the fact that it’s possible to melt from kisses. But these aren’t  _ordinary_  kisses. These come from a dorky mage and a worthy opponent.


	45. 15. Hollow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly in chapter 8 of the game's canon material; we have side stories that covers chapter 8 stuff, so this is me trying not to rehash everything or follow the game's canon story right down to the letter. 
> 
> Totally skippable chapter. Come get familiar with your “familiar.” Also, an aspect of this chapter was inspired by LavenderWine's YYH fic "Melon Liquor" with regard to the dangers of using abilities that the reader isn't all that proficient in. You should totally read her stuff. She's legit the best writer I've ever come across~ 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Mild Body Horror, Mega AU, Angst, Just Magey Things, Intense Tense Flippage, Bad Writing, Oh Look More Ancestors, Vauging Once More, Who Wants to Be a Necromancer?, No Takers?, “““Lore”””, Cameo from Prompto

** 15\. Hollow  **

“Everything’s going to be okay. Just give me a moment.” A flash of teeth in the dimly lit alley sets your own teeth on edge. “The Shield comes back with a new scar and now you’ll have one, too.” 

“One that _no one_ will know about,” you hiss, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “Or at least they won’t know the origins of it. Tell them and I’ll banish you.” 

A chuckle complements that flash of teeth. “There’s no shame in this, (y/n).” 

“ _Bullshit,_ ” you internally seethe. 

Yellow eyes are intense, like smoldering embers in the darkness. They almost make you forget the burning pain that pulsates through your arm. “(y/n). There is _no shame_ in this.” 

Eyes close and you tilt your head back. Sometimes it’s easy for everyone, including yourself, to forget what exactly it was that you went through to become as proficient with magic as you are. _Twenty years_ of seclusion. _Fourteen years_ of practicing black magic, learning theoretical magic, dabbling in enchantments as a hobby, and taking up herbalism. But you make it so easy for everyone to forget. Casual magic tends to do that. Reheating a cup of coffee between the palms of your hands, keeping Noct’s ice-cream from melting with a soft burst of frigid air, and everything else that you do to normalize your magic use. Where once your spells drew looks, now the “magic” has worn off. 

It’s a double-edged sort of development.  


Pleasure is derived from the many ways that you can make everyone’s lives easier with a simple  spell. And therein lies a huge problem. It’s all about the way one thinks- a variance in verbiage that makes all the difference. “Simple spell.” In reality there’s no such thing. There’s a copious amount of practice that leads to spells _becoming_ simple. A huge difference. It’s a difference that you knew when you lived in the Spire. It’s a difference that slowly ebbed away and became less salient after months of being free from the confines of that old college. You still _know_ it, of course, but it’s pushed far away. Couple it with the fact that you’ve been so entrenched in complex spells and “simple” takes on a whole new meaning. 

Simple starts to mean “thoughtless” but there _is no_ thoughtless magic. 

So adept at black magic, elementary spells are effortless. So adept at black magic, you forget that that doesn’t translate across branches. A funny thing to forget, considering how difficult it was for you to learn how to banish. But maybe it was the “mastery” of banishing spells that lent that errant thought of yours some credence; that made you think you could simply dip into white magic. Living in the present and agonizing over the future causes the past to become even more blurred and foggy. You’re talented _now_ and that somehow translates to “you’ve _always been_ talented.” When you’re considering complex spells within your branch, it never occurs to you that simple spells from another branch of magic entirely _are_ complex spells to you. 

Magic doesn’t work like that. 

What you learned was what was made available to you. In the Spire there were magisters who were herbalists and those who studied black or white magic. There were no enchanters- you just got lucky to have an affinity for such magic and a creative spirit that nurtured it. Your grandfather was a black mage same as Aunt Lysandra and yourself and your mother was a white mage. Decima, however, had no time to teach you her skill. And she wouldn’t have, anyway. Because you? You were being specifically trained to guide and protect the future king of Lucis. Your magic needed to be devastating- on par with your grandfather, Tacitus the Stormbearer. It wasn’t as if you could keep dabbling, anyway. 

Magic is rigid like that. 

Like any skill it needs to be honed and constantly practiced. But one can’t simply have their fingers in all of the pies and expect to be any good at any one magic. Mages pick their lot and stick with it because magic isn’t a _hobby_ unless one can accidentally blow themselves up or make a limb necrotic by collecting stamps or scrapbooking. This even applies to Iovitas. That sticks in your craw. 

“What’s taking so long? Can you fix it or not?” You pant, struggling to decide what’s more shameful: Having a daemon heal you or crippling yourself in the first place. It was a _simple_ healing spell, something written in your mother’s entry in the grimoire. Entry-level, she’d said, but she also cautioned against doing it to oneself without proper training. So, logically, you did it to yourself without proper training. It was as if you were in some strange sitcom: Hunting for mushrooms that only pop up at night, the daemon perched on your shoulder as a bat, and then you fell. Cue the laugh track. Your elbow smarted but you didn’t think much of it, brooding over the daemon’s laughter at your expense. But then you got back to the hotel and realized you’d torn a hole in your sweater and there was blood. 

“I can take care of that for you,” the daemon had offered but you were still irritated.  


You’d snapped, “No. I’ve got it.”  


Cue the laugh track once more.  


White magic has its dangers. It’s healing and regenerative but if one doesn’t practice, if one is  busy keeping their fingers in all those delicious magical pies, terrible things can happen... _especially_ if one’s background is in destructive magic. It’s what you discover when you go to heal that minor scrape and the wound becomes enflamed and forms pustules. Magic, even white, isn’t a flight of fancy. You’re in an alley near the hotel in Lestallum, teeth grit and head tilted back against the stone wall. At this point, your arm could be on fire and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. The daemon pulls your sweater off of you and inspects the wound. It’s without any of its skins now. Yellow eyes flicker up at you. Its lipless mouth doesn’t move but you can still hear it speaking. 

“You stretch yourself too thin. Your magic may be unlimited but that doesn’t mean you don’t have to practice.” A finger that’s too much bone drags under a pustule, feeling like rough stone against your skin, and you bite back a pained whimper when the pustule pops. “Ugh. Just look at the mess you’ve made of yourself. You’re lucky that I’m here.” 

“I don’t need to look at it...” you spit out from between your teeth, “I can _feel_ it just fine.” 

There are people in the marketplace, you can hear them beyond the imposing buildings of the alleyway that you occupy. The smell of fried food and alcohol wafts over this part of the city, coupled with laughter and tinny music. Everyone is blissfully unaware of the mage with the slowly rotting arm and the daemon that seeks to reverse the botched spell. As you look up at the night sky, trying to distract yourself from the agonizing pain that languidly spreads and eats away your flesh, you watch the stars. They twinkle, bits of silver and opalescent flecks occasionally obscured by pale wisps of smoke from Lestallum’s infinite number of food carts. Over the faint smell of charred and seasoned meat, you can smell the rot of your arm. 

“If you had the time, you could master this branch, you know. Master it the same way you’ve _almost_ mastered black.” There’s a tingle of energy, like a cooling prickle along the wound, and the scrape is healed. Pustules are gone, the burning sensation dissipates, decay is reversed, and you’re left with a slightly shiny scar. It’s barely visible in the limited light of the alley. Tears are hastily wiped away and gratitude is mumbled under that intense yellow gaze as you inspect your new scar. It’s pearlescent and runs a couple of inches up and down your arm. Stomach twists at the thought of how fast the decay had spread. Who are you kidding? _Everyone_ is going to notice this. Plus, you’ll need to ask Ignis to mend your sleeve. 

“(y/n)?” 

At the daemon’s inquisitive tone, you brood. “Yes, well, I wanted to heal a damn scrape _now_ and not a decade from now.” A strained breath puffs out of you. “I should’ve paid more attention-” 

Two bony fingers grab your chin and force you to stare into those unblinking eyes. “This wasn’t from a lack of concentration. You lack the _proper foundation_. Why a healing spell if you wanted to learn white? That’s considered advanced if you’re learning with an already established and opposing background in black.” When you don’t respond, the daemon sighs and releases you. “ _Arrogance_. Lucky you learn your limits now-” 

“I can banish daemons. I have a strong enough foundation in white-” 

“No. You don’t. It’s not strong enough and you can _barely_ banish, (y/n). As far as I can recall, you’ve only done a handful of complete banishments. That’s a shaky foundation at best. All the rest were turned into binds midway through, which has its roots in _black_ magic.” The daemon hums. “Now, if you want to do something that’s _like_ healing but has its roots in black magic...” It trails off cryptically as it’s wont to do. Such a sphinx-like trait for a creature that speaks incessantly. But you’re a bit too tired to play guessing games right now. It’s nearly six in the morning, the sun should be coming out soon, and yet the daemon continues to walk about without wearing any of its stolen skins. 

Fingers absentmindedly stroking your scar, you drawl, “Don’t be so dramatic. Just tell me.” When the daemon gives you what’s supposed to be a coy look, you sigh, “It’s necromancy, isn’t it? What’s with you and necromancy? I already told you a million times that I won’t touch it again. I’ll be a dead mage walking with how much life force is needed to sustain those damn spells, anyway.” 

“Not necessarily,” the daemon corrects, standing across from you in the alley. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you sigh, downright exhausted. “Rob Peter to pay Paul and all that. Well, more accurately, rob Peter to pay cosmic Paul.” 

A breathy chuckle. “ _Is_ that more accurate?”  


“Cosmic balance? I thought it was accurate.” Shoulders shrug indifferently, stiffly with how you  continue to lean against the building behind you. “Anyway, it’s almost sun-” 

Yellow eyes flash. “When your king had his headaches from Titan’s rambling, you could do nothing. When he needed Ramuh’s favor, you could do nothing. Do you wish to remain useless in the presence of the Astrals? You’re supposed to be the King’s protector. You should be prepared to protect him from _everyone_.” 

That sudden bombardment hangs in the stale air between you two for a long time. Yet you’ve grown accustomed to this. Necromancy will be brought up casually by the daemon, you’ll shoot the suggestion down, and then you’ll get hit with unsavory facts. Facts that are _supposed_ to make necromancy look more appealing. Except you have a bad history with necromancy and you’ve always, always, _always_ been warned against it. Horror stories were told of people who died horrible deaths only to be brought back with necromancy but they were still in the state that they died- skinned, burned, maimed- and left in agony until they died all over again. And sometimes it takes _so_ long to bring someone back that their soul is already long gone and all one has got to show for such an intricate spell is a husk, a mindless thrall. 

Gaze flickers up to the slowly lightening sky. “Ominous. I think you should star in films. You’ve a wonderful acting talent.” 

“(y/n), I’m serious. Do you think the Astrals love your king like you do?” 

“What?” 

A grimace of teeth. “Tell me: Do you truly believe that they will protect him? That they will do right by him? I know you doubt them. After all their failings? The past speaks for itself. Your king will be burned in the end if you don’t take action. Because they don’t see a person... they see a tool, an instrument to be used and tossed away.” 

You stare into that ruined face that stands across from you. When the daemon stands to its full stature, you two are the same height. Right now, it’s slightly stooped- the only posture that doesn’t bring it discomfort in this form. “I’m already working on a spell-” You’re immediately cut off, as expected. 

“The bind? Yes, that’s clever. But your king can’t benefit from your limitless supply of magic if he’s _dead_. And if he were to die with your soul in him? You know what can happen. Lumis wrote _all_ about it. Does the thought of being, for all intents and purposes, _undead_ , thrill you?” 

The daemon has given you the same lecture over and over once you finally told it of your plan. It was impressed but disgruntled. That charred, bony hand had flipped through your family grimoire and pointed to Lumis’ passage. “I notice you never look at this passage. When you get to this  point in the book, you refuse to read the truth,” the daemon had said, to your chagrin. 

Not feeling up for the daemon trying to school you for the millionth time, you snark, “Not to get all technical on you, but is one still considered undead if one can be killed?” 

Unimpressed, the daemon snarks back, “Soulless things are classified as undead. Don’t get cute. And death doesn’t discriminate between those with souls and those without. It comes for all.” 

“See? You’d be great in the theater.” 

“You know you won’t be able to properly use magic without your soul, right? You’ll be as limited as everyone else.”  Another fact that it likes to beat to death: That once you rip your soul out you’ll be stuck slumming it like everyone else, having to guzzle down potions to perform magic. But you have your ace in the hole: The daemon souls. With those, you’ll be able to use the daemons’ magic and their abilities as if they were your own. As if reading your mind, the daemon questions soberly, “Those souls that you have... you know they don't belong to you, right?” 

A surprised blink is your immediate response. “Of course.”  


“Good. When you use their magic, you know you get punished for it, right?” 

You take a bit longer to respond this time. It’s a startled, “ _What_?” 

A charred hand comes up to rest on exposed ribs. “That stifling feeling that you get in your chest. A headache, like a migraine. Numbness in your limbs. It's not proper to use souls in that way- like they _belong_ to you. Even if you know they aren't yours, you still use them and Ramuh punishes you each time. Life ebbs out.” 

Mouth opens and closes a few times as you struggle to form a coherent sentence. It’s a mixture of shock and general fatigue that keeps you from responding quickly. “Isn't the point of punishment that you know it happens? Otherwise it’s absolute horseshit!” 

If the daemon had lips, it would purse them. Though it agrees with you with regard to that sentiment, the fact remains that it’s supposed to be a Mage’s inherited duty to make one aware of Ramuh’s judgment- a duty that was supposed to be passed down upon the death of the preceding Iovita. Yet not a single Iovita in known history has had the ability to know Ramuh’s judgment. It was written out of the family grimoire- the first and only entry to ever be removed and burned. The only entry that would have ever removed any doubt from your mind that every story that was passed down through the generations of your family’s creation was true. The Mage created by Ramuh as a protector of the King and as a Messenger of Ramuh’s will. 

The daemon mimics your favorite gesture: It shrugs. “You felt the pains. You knew. Yet you persisted.” 

“Son of a bitch,” you blurt and the daemon sighs at your foul language. You don’t care. Well, you don’t have the mind to care at the moment. If the daemon is trying to make necromancy appealing, it’s certainly on its A-game today. But you’re feeling irritated that it took it so damn long to tell you this. _Why_ did it wait so long? “Then I'll stop using daemons.” 

“Easy enough, hm?” That grisly head cocks to the side with an audible crackle of bone and burned muscle. “There might come a time when you need to use a soul improperly, however. Tell me when you do and I'll tell you the price.” 

Suspicion creeps into your tone. “How would you even _know_ that?” 

There’s apprehension there, yellow eyes waver from your face. “I’m Ifrit’s Messenger, of course. Your ancestor, Aela, warned your family about me. I deal with magical exchanges that concern souls constantly, therefore I know the judgment for them and I know their price.” 

Ifrit’s Messenger who is supposed to want your family _dead_ yet is _protecting_ you? 

“Right,” you murmur, not entirely buying what seems like a completely logical explanation. It’s an explanation you would’ve bought upon first meeting the daemon. But you’ve learned to read it now. And you don’t quite like what you’re reading right now. “Your contracts with the Spire mages. I recall reading about that in my family grimoire.” 

“Yes.” The daemon looks up and puts an end to the conversation. “The sun will rise soon. Let me slip into something more comfortable.” 

It does it when you look up to the sky instinctively. You’ll never get to see the daemon shapeshift- never see how the air about its form ripples and the body warps. Usually you’re pleasantly surprised by what it changes into; some cute creature or something beastly and awe-inspiring. But today, when you look back down, you’re turned to stone and your blood becomes ice. A young man with a charming smile looks at you. He adjusts his dusky lavender cardigan about his lithe frame, dark eyes remaining on you, before fixing his neatly parted dark hair. The alley suddenly feels too small. Because you _know_ what the daemon does to get those skins it so cherishes and you _know_ that face. 

It’s funny how memories can be triggered. A simple smell, a word, or a scene. Even things that one would prefer to never remember for the rest of their life can be brought back with the right trigger. And that face? That kind face? You close your eyes when you’re hit with the metallic stink of blood and offal. It has your heart racing and makes it difficult for you to breathe. 

“Hey, hey,” a mellow voice reassures you, “you’re all right, (y/n).” 

Hands come up to rest on your shoulders and you shrink back against the building. “Get away from me.” It’s said so softly, throat constricted. The daemon can’t hear you but it senses your panic. Yet it doesn’t back away. The next thing you say is crystal clear. “You can’t wear that.” 

“Please?” There’s a pout in that voice and you want to vomit. “Will you let me use this face? _Please_?” 

Eyes snap open with barely contained rage. “No!” The daemon blinks in surprise and you reel in your panic. Heart still beats erratically. You might faint. “They'll know what you are if you do,” you explain, voice even despite how you scream inside. You tell yourself to keep it together. You tell yourself that you already recalled how it killed someone... But to see the face of the man it killed? It has you spiraling. The world feels like it’s spinning too quickly, like it shifts beneath your feet and you’re a little kid again in that room with the daemon and Magister Orion. His voice... begging you to call the daemon off right before it ripped his throat out and ate him. Bile touches your tongue. 

Those hands rub up and down your arms. “Just say I'm an old friend. They're used to those popping up out of nowhere.” The daemon jokes and smiles good-naturedly and you’re struck by your own foolishness. You’d grown close to this thing all this time. You let it tutor you and look after you. But it’s mad. You can see that now in the dead man’s face. It’s purposefully drawing this conversation out so that you’ll have no choice but to allow the daemon to remain in that human skin or else you won’t be able to have it by your side. And you hate that you draw comfort from its presence at your side. Even after everything. Even after all that it’s done, you draw comfort and strength from it. 

With a weak smile, you confess, “Apparently we share the same shade of gray where our morality is concerned.” 

The daemon’s eyebrow quirks at that but it asks again, “Will you let me use this face or not?” 

“Did you kill everything that you wear? I’ve always wondered. I don’t really ask you many questions because you’re so godsdamned cryptic but-” A shaky breath is inhaled. “There was an entry by Circe the Shifter where she spoke about her craft. I never paid anything of hers any mind because I couldn’t really _stomach_ the idea of killing animals just to take their form.” 

“What?” 

That weak smile is still worn as you shake your head. “Don’t bother answering. It was actually kind of rhetorical, now that I think about it. I remember that day, you know. It was a nightmare that I often had when I was a child. But when I saw that face just now I remembered that it was real. I remember what you did to that man.” 

Dark eyes grow even darker at the accusatory tone that you take. That kind face ices over moodily. “Do you remember _why_ I did it?” 

“You're a daemon.” 

The daemon rolls its stolen, chocolate brown eyes. “Right. _Just_ a daemon. A daemon who will protect _you_ at all costs. This man,” the daemon gestures toward its body angrily, “if you can _call_ him that, preyed on you. He was killing you, a _child_ , and he wore a smile all the while.” 

The two of you stare at each other. That stolen face is moody, brooding, brow puckered and lips downturned at the judgment it sees in your impassive gaze. But honestly? That judgment is more directed toward yourself. Because even though you know everything about this daemon (or, at least you think you do), you still won’t turn it away. It’s a fine teacher. Though it pushes you toward necromancy at every turn like it gets a damn commission off of it or something, it’s useful. And would it be wrong of you to say that you’ve grown to genuinely appreciate its company? An old, lonely soul. You seem to draw that type toward you like a magnet for tragedy. 

“There you a-! Uh...” That familiar voice tapers off at the sight of (y/n) Iovita with a strange man... _embracing_ them? Prompto gives the two of you a suspicious look at your proximity to each other. That suspicion doubles when he notices the stranger’s lavender cardigan. “(y/n)? What are you doing back here with...?” 

An easy smile graces the daemon’s face. It’s a little stiff, as if from disuse, but only someone as perceptive as you would really notice something like that. “Orion. I graduated with (y/n) back at the Spire of Duscae. I never imagined we’d be running into each other here.” Brown eyes glance between you and the blond shutterbug. 

Blue eyes are trained on the daemon’s hands on your shoulders and his lips purse. “Yeah... in an _alley_ ,” Prompto mumbles, “talk about a coincidence.” 

Sensing that things are about to take a bad turn toward a long inquiry, you look at the sharpshooter and assure him, “I’ll meet you back at the hotel, Prompto.” 

“Wha-? You _sure_?” 

“Yeah,” you cut him off, expression tired and pointed. Prompto Argentum knows _that_ expression well. It means he’d have better luck getting Gladio to disavow cup noodles than getting you to do what he wants. The two of you are given one more lingering look before Prompto leaves in the  direction of the hotel. Once you’re sure he’s gone, you return your attention to the daemon. “They’re going to be suspicious when they realize I don’t have my ‘familiar’ with me.” 

Shoulders shrug and the daemon purses its lips. “Just pick up a snake or something and put it in your bag.” 

Eyes roll at that ridiculous suggestion. “You _do_ realize that wild animals aren’t cool with being shoved into bags, right?” 

“Why must you make everything difficult?” The daemon walks over to a dumpster with a sigh, paws through the refuse for a bit before snatching something up, and returns to you with a dead roach in its hand. “Look. Just put it in your pocket and take it out and talk to it every now and then. It’s an insect so life will be harder for them to detect from afar.” 

“Okay, that settles it. You’re insane,” you gripe when the daemon shakes its hand like it’s offering some treats to a stray animal. The roach nearly falls out of the daemon’s palm. It seems particularly... crunchy. It must’ve been dead for a while now. 

Dark eyebrows rise. “But you’ll do it, won’t you?” 

You stare at the daemon for a long time before snatching the dead roach out of its hand and shoving it in your pocket. “Smart-ass.” 


	46. Ignis: Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some short, fluffy nonsense featuring Ignis as the (somewhat) leading man.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Just Fluffy Nonsense, A Pointless One-Shot, OOC Galore, You  & Noct Are Trolls, Leave Iggy Alone

**Hot Chocolate**

Rain patters against glass panes, the window fogging up with each exhale as you watch the heavens part. Outside, the pavement is turned slick and black like ice. On the other side of the table from you sits Ignis, quietly reading his own journal of recipes and revising them according to feedback he’s received from you and the guys.

Eyelids flutter with each line of text that he reads over, brow furrows with every carefully considered revision. He bites his lip, reconsiders, and then moves on to another recipe. All you can hear is the steady fall of rain and the incessant scratching of a ballpoint pen scribbling away on paper. After a moment, you return your gaze to the sky.

When the weather is overcast and gray like this, you always get a craving for something warm and comforting to shield you from the cold. Something to lift your spirits and  _not_  get you in the crosshairs of one Ignis Scientia, who has those green eyes on you like lasers the second you get up and start banging around in the caravan’s tiny kitchen.

The others are out and about, doing their own things. You’re pretty sure that Prompto and Noct are glued to the pinball machine in the Crow’s Nest diner that shares the same lot as the camper. Gladio? Probably out for an invigorating run in the sleet. Which leaves you and Ignis to stay safely nestled indoors in a caravan that doesn’t seem to want to trap in heat.

Flimsy cabinet doors are opened, their faux wood laminate edges peeling up to reveal cheap plywood. Wool thread from your sweater gets caught more than a few times before you think to roll up the sleeves. Fingertips carefully flicker over neatly organized spices and base ingredients that Ignis always, without fail, unpacks into the kitchen of wherever you all stay.

It only takes a moment and a few more carelessly banged open cabinet doors for you to find what you’re looking for: A small, rectangular paper box that’s all beaten up and cost you less than a thousand gil. On the face of the box, in glossy print, are the words “ChocoHot” with a cartoon cup of hot chocolate that looks thrilled to be consumed by a small, eager child.

Just when Ignis thinks you’re done slamming things around like a dualhorn on quaaludes, you slam one more cabinet to fetch two metal mugs. In all fairness, you don’t necessarily  _slam_  things. It’s just that in the quiet of the cramped caravan, everything sounds louder. The brunet watches you in mild irritation as you put a kettle of water on the stove and wait.

Under normal circumstances, you might utilize some casual magic. But today? You’re in a more relaxed mood and aren’t in any great rush to have water heated. In the quiet of your repose, Ignis goes back to editing. Once more, the only sounds to fill the caravan are hushed rainfall and the diligent scratching of pen on paper.

A recipe for tomato soup is deeply contemplated. You’d had stars in your eyes as you complimented everyone’s favorite chef to the point that he’d visibly blushed but Noctis had stared at his own bowl like it owed him money. Iggy thinks that if he can add something to it, it might make Noct reconsider his bleak verdict. More sugar? Certainly not.

This is how it goes for quite a few primarily vegetable-based (you’d narrowed your eyes when Noct had called a tomato a veggie) recipes. To scrap or not to scrap? Though Ignis loves Noctis dearly, there are three other palates to cater to and they don’t all exclusively revolve around meat and sweets while excluding vegetables, certain fruits, and legumes.

Before the bespectacled brunet can get himself all in a tizzy, wanting to scratch out everything his best friend has ever contorted his face at having eaten, a mug of some soupy looking brown thing is slammed down in front of him. Green eyes slide from the mug to you just as you slide back into your seat, looking content with yourself.

Ignis watches as you blow on your beverage before emptying nearly half a bag of mini marshmallows into it. Once you’re happy with your marshmallow levels, you shake the bag at him and he politely declines. It takes a few careful sips in which you fear burning yourself to realize that Iggy has made no move to even _touch_  his hot chocolate.

“Is there a problem?” You wonder, reclining back into your chair with your mug in your hands. Across from you, the brunet sighs and snaps his journal shut. Fingers drum against the leather cover for a moment before finally pushing the journal away from him. It makes a soft noise as it slides to the side and out of his line of sight.

Ignis glances down at his hot chocolate before finally answering, “I was just revising some recipes. Nothing too strenuous.”

Revising recipes? You bite your tongue to keep in all of your snark. Sure, you love Ignis’ cooking and would probably marry him purely based on his expertise in the kitchen if you didn’t also adore his sassy personality, but you and Noct have made a bit of a joke about Iggy’s “recipes.” By this point, the two of you have mastered the older brunet’s accent.

Needless to say, even with his sense of humor, Ignis doesn’t find the constant snapping like the two of you are at a jazz club all that amusing. He was also less than impressed when you and Noct bought a spiral notebook and began handing it off to each other to add entries with the alleged recipes being things like “chickie nuggies” and “borger.”

“Oh, okay,” you murmur into your mug, taking a sip to not laugh. The hot chocolate has a bitter aftertaste that really lingers in the back of your throat but it’s otherwise sickeningly saccharine with the sheer volume of marshmallows you dumped in. In fact, the marshmallows add a hint of… plastic? Oh, gods, did you just poison yourself? Are you about to poison Ignis?

No wonder this cost less than a thousand gil! Now you’re feeling a bit self-conscious about having served the gourmand something so spectacularly subpar when all you wanted to do was complement the mood established by the dreary winter weather. Clearly he’s in a foul mood and you’re positive this awful hot chocolate isn’t going to make it any better.

Sweating now, you watch with bated breath as Ignis tilts his mug to and fro in an attempt to stir the liquid around. Clumps of powder float up to the surface, prompting him to glance up at you with a quirked eyebrow. “Is this made from scratch?” Iggy asks, knowing full well that you went out of your way to buy instant hot cocoa from the nearby gas station.

But, like you guessed, he’s in a bit of a mood and your dismissive stance toward his fine tuning of recipes is grating. Listen, reading a recipe book and then  _modifying_  those recipes totally counts as coming up with a  _new_ recipe! Nevertheless, you and Noct sure do enjoy making fun of him after all of the pains he goes through to provide everyone with a nice selection of food.

“I mean…” Cheeks begin to warm up and you offer him an endearing grin, “I scratched the box open.”

Your comedic timing leaves a lot to be desired. It’s almost like you specifically time jokes for when Ignis is either eating or drinking. How many times have you almost killed him? Well, add one more incident to the list as the brunet chokes on instant cocoa when he snorts in the middle of swallowing. Tears prick his eyes and he hastily covers his mouth with a paper napkin.

Like a comic book villain, you watch on placidly while your foe is felled by your hand. Ignis Scientia chokes on hot chocolate to the rhythm of falling rain. Those green eyes glare at you, watery and full of mirth. Once he’s recomposed himself, he bluntly informs you, voice gravelly, “This is the  _worst_  hot cocoa that I’ve ever had.”

“Oh, yeah? The worst?” You muse, taking another sip. The mood is now jovial, tension nonexistent in your brunet friend’s form. His more playful nature is coming out after that near-death experience and you’re to be on the receiving end of it. Wicked eyes crinkle when you grin and teasingly query, “Well, why don’t you come up with a _new recipe_?”


	47. Hotrod

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this was a tumblr request. The request reads: _hi wrath! i'm just curious, would magey like riding in the regalia's other modes, type f and type d?_
> 
> So, without further ado...

**Hotrod**

**Type D:**

You stare at the Re- No. This  _isn’t_  the Regalia.

The Regalia is elegant and refined; has a sort of dignity. You don’t know what the hell  _this_  is. A dune buggy? Monster truck? It’s mostly tires with the Regalia sitting on top like a pretty ornament. You bring your straw up to your mouth and take a sip of soda. Someone walks up to stand beside you. A warm hand grabs your shoulder and brings you in for a quick side-hug.

“What did you do?”

“You don’t like it?” Cindy asks, eyebrows knitted together. She gives you a squeeze before letting you go. There’s an evil glint in her olive eyes even as she puts on a thoughtful expression and hums, “I was thinkin’ of givin’ Choco Jr. a little-”

“Bye.”

You hear Cindy laughing to herself behind your back as you hurry for the safety of your cute yellow moped. Some semblance of normalcy, please! Refuge is found in the scooter and you wait impatiently for the others to finish drooling over the souped up Regalia to hit the road. Except they don’t immediately hit the road. Oh, no.

“Hey, (y/n)! Let’s go!” It’s Prompto who calls out to you.

You don’t even look over. Hands fidget with your side mirrors like they actually need to be adjusted. When that doesn’t deter the blond and he calls out to you again, you whip your head around and exclaim quite dramatically, “I don’t know you people. Who are you? Stop talking to me.”

“C’mon,” Noct laughs grabbing you by the sleeve of your sweater and pulling you over to the Regalia despite how you claw with one hand for the safety of your scooter, “Gladio’ll give you a boost.”

“If anyone needs a boost, it’s Pro-” You stop short when you see the blond is already sitting pretty, practically buzzing with excitement. Frowning, you put your soda on the floorboard and pull yourself up into the car. Soda is nestled between your knees and you’re nestled between Gladio and Iggy. You have all the warning signs.

It should be Ignis who drives… Shouldn’t it? Noct has a bit of a wild streak that comes out whenever he gets behind the wheel. You’re lulled into a false sense of security when the drive starts off normal. But then Prom rolls his head to the side and suggests you all go off-road. The two young men exchange wicked grins. You didn’t know death could look so cute.

Noct hits the thrusters and the Regalia lurches forward, sending you all back into your seats. Knees squeeze the soda reflexively. You don’t know if it’s panic or what, but the prince loses control of the Regalia, the car hits the guardrail, and then it just… flips. And you hate the universe. From 0 to 100 real damn quick.

Everyone screams.

 _Everyone_.

It’s a collective of flailing limbs and gratitude for seat belts. Prompto sounds like an opera singer, hands in the air, barely staying in his seat, eyes screwed shut. Noct looks totally unaffected save for how tightly he grips the steering wheel, eyes maybe a little wide. Ice cubes nail you in the face and you hear one bounce off of Ignis’ lenses. The backseat gets drenched in soda and you lose the cup.

By the time the Regalia settles back down, miraculously upright, you’re in a tangle of Gladio’s and Iggy’s arms. Ignis’ hands are on your head, trying to pull you down toward his chest while Gladio’s arms are around the two of you. You’re shivering like a chihuahua smack dab in the middle, sticky from soda and quite possibly dead.

“Whoa. Uh…” Noct swallows hard, knuckles white from how tightly he grips the steering wheel. Prompto has gone fetal in his seat. Noct winces. Blue eyes glance in the rearview mirror to see his bundle of traumatized, soda-soaked advisors. “Sorry.”

 

**Type F:**

“Okay, you remember that I follow you guys on a scooter, right?”

Noctis turns from Cindy to see you eyeing the Regalia disdainfully. He doesn’t see what the big deal is. The car looks magnificent: All smooth lines and sleek. And after all that hard work to collect what he honestly thought were pieces of junk? She looks like a dream! But you snort as you lean against Choco Jr. and point out that the Regalia looks like the Batmobile.

“I guess Noct is Batman and Prom is Robin,” you tease, earning yourself a bark of a laugh from Gladiolus.

Prompto stops his drooling to turn to you. “Don’t you have a broomstick or something like that so you can keep up?” The blond asks, tilting his head.

The silence after that question lasts an age. You have a long-winded rant about what it does and  _doesn’t_  mean to be a mage but you hold your tongue. Gladio snorts and Ignis smirks. But Prompto still looks all innocent with his head cocked and his lower lip pouted out. Honestly? You’re tempted to give them all a nice zap for their sass.

“I’m never speaking to you again,” you finally say to the blond, totally unamused.

“Just hop in,” Noct orders, talking over Prom’s exclamation that he didn’t do anything to earn your ire. “You can sit between Specs and Gladio like before.”

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you drawl but you mosey on over to the Regalia anyway. “Says the one who will have legroom. And I’m not sure how I feel about you flying this thing. You can hardly even drive on the ground!”

Noct scowls, offended. “ _You_  wanna drive?”

“Let’s not travel down that road,” Iggy interjects.

Gladio sits heavily, taking his rightful spot, and gently threatens, “If you don’t get in, you’ll get left behind.”

“So, this is what mother meant about peer pressure?” You cross your arms and purse your lips. “Here I was, thinking one of you would hand me something funny smelling behind the Crow’s Nest next to the dumpster and instead you’re trying to force me into a flying car. What sort of sci-fi nonsense is this?”

As you’re complaining, Ignis gently steers you toward the open door and you sit without further ado. Scooting down the seat, you make room for Iggy who seals your fate as he closes the door. All is normal. The Regalia cruises down the road, music playing softly, breeze nice and cool. It’s like Noct waits for you to get comfortable before he rips the world out from under you.

There’s a whirring of machinery, a great shift, and the top comes up. That’s pretty normal. Right? I mean… it’s all windowed and not the usual top. And then wings extend and you’re staring straight ahead as the road disappears only to be replaced by blue sky. Fingers dig into your thighs. Prompto gives a great whoop of excitement.

Like a cardboard cutout, you’re still as can be, sandwiched between an enthused Gladio and an impressed Ignis. A breeze might make this bearable. But you don’t have that luxury. So you opt to close your eyes and pretend it’s Noctis sitting next to you and Ignis who has the wheel and the power to send you all plunging to a fiery death.

An elbow bumps you and you nearly jump a foot in the air. “Havin’ fun?” Gladio teases.

Eyes slide to the side to glare at him. “Let me ask you for a favor.”

The Shield shrugs. “Go ahead.”

“Put me in a headlock until I lose consciousness.”

All he does is laugh. Sadly, he doesn’t indulge your request.


	48. Competitive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, kids, is what we call a shitpost in the guise of a drabble. Set after you get yourself a """lovely""" chocobo.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Fluff, It’s Just Fluff, OOC Galore, Y’all Should Never Be Allowed To Name Anything Ever Again

**Competitive**

Like lightning he bolts across the finish line, leaving Prompto in his dust. Said blond is fanning at his face, playing up coughing on dust for his bro’s amusement. He’s a gracious loser. It’s more than can be said for the raven-haired royal. Because Noct? He’s a  _sore winner_. Perched on his chocobo like he just won a war, arms in the air as Gladio picks up blades of grass and throws them at him like flowers.

You’re no help. You do nothing to bring that ego back down to size…  _yet_. But at the moment you’re cheering for your friend, hands cupped around your mouth. You and Prompto come up with some lame cheer as Noct races against Gladiolus. The Shield’s weight does him no favors in a chocobo race. Lady Dandelion can’t keep up with Nugget’s speed.

Then you start to get suspicious. Because Ignis? You’ve seen some of the stunts he’s pulled while riding on his chocobo. He and Eggs Benedict are a force to be reckoned with. And yet he loses to Noct by a hair’s breadth. It’s just close enough to not draw suspicion. Except you’re a suspicious mage by nature. And you’re on to everyone.

You get the feeling they’re all letting the prince win. It makes you hesitate before mounting Sunny. Should  _you_  let him win? As if on cue, one blazing blue eye gives you a deadly look, sensing your hesitation. That haughty avian comrade of yours? He’s more competitive than even  _you_  are. You’re almost thrown off when he races off like he runs on jet fuel.

He goes so fast that you think you might have just time traveled. So… it’s not  _totally_  your fault that Noct is left pouting after you completely smoke his ass like a peanut. Sunny is squawking ecstatically as you pin the medal to his belt. The other chocobos look on placidly at the theatrical chocobo who seems to just want to rub this win in the prince’s face. Everyone is glaring at you.

Damn.


	49. 16. Pressure (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still roughly in chapter 8 of the game's canon material... I never claimed to be a good writer so y’all can’t say I duped you this late in the game. Anyway, an unnecessarily long chapter that I’m sorry for inflicting upon y’all. This is filler. This is just closure, a nosy daemon, the establishment of yet another long-term lie, and a segue into relationship talk. Totally skippable garbo chapter, y’all. Btw, it references "Black Coffee" with the whole Vine debut that y'all had.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Just Magey Things, Intense Tense Flippage, OOC Galore, Your Familiar is a Troll, Dash o’ Angst, A Wingman Who Can Sometimes Have Wings, But Your Familiar is a BAMF, It Won’t Abide Uncertainty, A Wonderful Wingman Who Can Sometimes Have Wings, Jealousy, Mage Weirdness, Pushy Familiars, You’ve Been Adopted, Congratulations

**16\. Pressure**

**Noctis**

As you climb the steps up to the second floor of the hotel, leaving the daemon to sit patiently in the lobby, you wonder just how many layers of deception you can sink into. Then you sigh at how dramatic that thought is. Are you a mage or an actor? Actually... that’s not a very good question because with the amount of fibbing you’ve been doing, you’re akin to someone playing a role. 

“ _And it’s all for a good purpose_ ,” you tell yourself. 

Because, honestly, what good would it do to reveal that the conventionally attractive young man struggling to sip coffee in the lobby is actually an ancient daemon wearing the skin of a man the creature killed over a decade ago? Killed in order to protect _you_? It’d assuage your guilt and that’s all. That’s the only good thing that would likely come of it. 

And though you hate to be one of those people who weighs the morality of their actions based on outcomes, it’s become more and more of a necessity. Funny, that. Truth is too convenient but only for you and lies are necessary in order to not burden the others who are already far too burdened to begin with. In keeping your lips sealed, at least for now, you alleviate a burden they’re unaware of. 

“A good rationale,” you murmur bitterly under your breath, hand shoved in the pocket of your pants to fish out your hotel room key. It’s quiet on the other side of the door, you note. Eyebrow pops up of its own accord. Typically, at this hour, Noct has already been roused and he and Prom tend to be a bit rowdy when together. 

Breath stilling in your chest despite the fact that detection is 100% not even a possibility at this moment, you lean forward and press your ear to the door in the hopes of hearing what’s going on. You can’t hear a thing save for maybe utensils hitting a plate and the occasional rumble of Gladiolus’ deep voice.

You step away from the door and sigh. 

On the other side, everyone is having breakfast in the hotel room before setting off for Cape Caem. Despite it just being the four of them, they speak in hushed tones. Your name is a whisper gently falling from downturned lips, blue eyes flash with displeasure as Prompto talks about what he saw in the alleyway near the hotel. Guilt coils low in a gut, dark eyebrows struggling not to knit together. 

“You say this man was dressed like a Spire mage?” Asks Ignis, cup of coffee in hand but otherwise untouched. “He wore a sweater like (y/n)’s and looked to be about... twenty-five?” 

“Yeah. A little older than any of us but not by much. And he said his name was Orion,” Prompto adds, stealing a glance at his best friend. Noct suddenly doesn’t really feel all that hungry after hearing about how closely you’d been standing with some stranger in an alley. But Prom skimps on a few key details, if only for his bro’s sake. So it isn’t necessarily juvenile jealousy that raises Noct’s hackles so much as it’s concern and suspicion. 

The others continue to talk about this mystery man while Noct loses himself in his thoughts. 

The older men exchange stern looks. From everything you told them, you didn’t have _any_ friends in the Spire. However, this wouldn’t be the first time they caught you in a lie with regard to your interpersonal relationships within that ancient college. But the setting seems a little odd. _And_ the timing. They’re about to head out to Altissia... While unlikely, there’s always been an underlying fear of spies. 

There’s always been the need for discretion, which made your little Vine debut so vexing for everyone. That damn habit of yours: Jetting off _alone_. Before your face was made known to the entire damn world, Ignis and Gladiolus _tolerated_ your little trips out into the wilderness to collect plants and junk. But now there’s a very real possibility that you’ll get yourself abducted. Especially when they think about the chancellor’s strange interest in you. 

It’s a fear that’s conveyed through a single look.  


But while they fear an “imperial spy,” Noct comes to his own conclusion. 

You’ve hardly been one for physical affection, casual touches, or anything involving _touch_ , to be frank. It was something Noctis noticed pretty early on, practically the first day that you all met. Prompto, the biggest proponent of physical affection, had thrown his arm across your shoulders after a successful hunt and you’d _flinched_. Noct spotted it. Over time you steadily grew comfortable with the attention. You steadily returned and even initiated it. 

Which is what sets off the first alarm bell for Noct. Nobody just _casually_ touches (y/n) Iovita without their say-so. Nobody just _casually_ gets within their personal space- a space that they seem to cherish above all else. Whatever Prompto walked in on was either a clandestine meeting between you and someone you’ve known for a while or it was something more heinous and you need help right now. It’s a thought that has the raven-haired royal standing and going straight for the door. 

Just as he gets to the door, your little dog ears hear movement and the door to the hotel room opens. You waltz right in, wearing all of your usual airs. Noct is shot a dazzling smile right as keen green eyes zero-in on the tear and the blood on your sweater. There’s an inquiry followed by the heat of three other gazes. You’re relieved to be out of the musty old alley and in the comfort of one of the hotel’s cozy rooms, but the severity in everyone’s gaze makes you want to walk right back out. 

Everyone is looking at you like you were just murdered in front of them and not like you just have a tiny bit of blood on you... and you no longer even _have_ a wound! Guilt crashes over Prompto. He thinks this “Orion” guy did this to you. But Noctis? That first alarm bell is accompanied by about three more. The Prince of Repressed Emotions can read you perhaps better than anyone else, even Iggy. Though he may not be able to catch on to as many nuanced feelings as Specs, he can get the gist of what his favorite mage is going through. 

And right now? Steely blue eyes observe the hard set of your jaw, the harsh line of your shoulders, and the stiffness in your spine. That’s your liar’s stance. Funny that it’s so familiar to him that he has a name for it. Funny that he’s grown to know you so damn well over these months that he can detect something magisters you’d known for _twenty years_ could never discern. The royal leans against the wall beside you and crosses his arms. And that? That tells you that he knows the next thing out of your mouth is a lie. 

“ _Dammit_.” 

But you put on a good show for the others with a smile that says you’re flattered for their concern- you even let it reach your eyes. “I was out late last night and early this morning looking for mushrooms when I fell- don’t laugh, Gladio. Anyway, I didn’t have any potions, but luckily for me, I ran into an old acquaintance from the Spire and he had a potion on hand.” Eyes turn to Prom. “Which is what you walked in on. I was unaware that Orion, a guy I graduated with, was here in Lestallum.” 

“How fortuitous,” drawls Iggy, oozing suspicion. He almost buys your lie but, as previously stated, he’s the master of nuance and he can read the tension in your form. 

“Yes,” you counter, shooting the strategist a pointed look, one that almost makes him second- guess whether you’re tense because you’re lying or tense for another reason, “quite. I’m just stopping by to gather my things. I’m going to catch up with Orion and I’ll meet you all in Cape Caem.” 

Everyone knows better than to argue with you when you wear the face that you’ve chosen to don right now. It’s unblinking eyes set in an otherwise expressionless mask; cold, calculating, and eerily stoic. Once, Noct said you could interrogate people with that expression alone, no need for torture or any other sort of scare tactics... _just_ that face. 

So, Noct surprises everyone, including himself, when he shrugs away from the wall and insists, “Hey, (y/n), I’ll go with you. I’d also like to meet another Spire mage. Didn’t really get to talk to any back in Insomnia.” His words and the intention apparent in his eyes don’t match. Noct has never been a very good liar. Well, at least not to you: The Bloodhound Mage, as Gladio sometimes calls you. 

That built-in lie detector of yours is something the men often marvel over. It’s a bit disquieting but ultimately something they choose to find amusement in. However, there’s always the underlying question of _how_ you’d developed such an odd skill-set in the first place. This leads to a strange deviation in thought. This makes your quirky little skill an uncomfortable thing to ponder. 

Wicked eyes maintain too much eye contact than Noctis is comfortable with. This is the first time in days that you two have spoken one-on-one without someone interjecting or playing mediator. This is the first time you’ve looked him in the eye since you confessed your feelings and rode off on your moped to collect your thoughts amongst grazing dualhorns (a calf kept following you and wanted to sleep next to your brooding self, so you hardly got any closure there). 

Right now, this isn’t the best time for Noct to be _caring_. Everything is still raw, even if you put on an unaffected mask when you’re around everyone, and you don’t trust the daemon to play nice. 

Because, oh, that sneaky little bastard got the dirt. It’d apparently been watching from the caravan window as Noct kissed you and you ran away. The daemon asked what was wrong, wearing the skin of a big, fluffy dog for you to cuddle with, and you’d foolishly confided in it. 

It vacillated between defense of your king and petty name-calling. 

You sigh, “Like I said, he’s an acquaintance and he’ll hardly be able to provide you with whatever experience you think you’re missing out on when it comes to the conventional Spire mage.” 

Noct shrugs. “Yeah? Well, I’d still like to go.” He glances behind himself at his friends and protectors, a gleam in his eye. “I’m gonna set off with (y/n). Don’t worry, we’ll be safe. I’ll keep in touch.” 

Eyes slowly close as you imagine grabbing Noct by the shoulders and shaking him, a fantasy you share with Ignis. As entitled as it sounds, typically everyone allows you to do your own thing. There’s a certain amount of “mysticism” that shrouds you and protects you from the usual line of inquiry that you would be subjected to if you were anyone other than (y/n) Iovita. A luxury borne from your family name and your credentials as a Spire mage. 

It’s also the byproduct of your death and the many near-misses that followed in the wake of such a traumatic event. Honestly? It’s a little humorous. The fact that you died once for Noct has made your loyalty an unquestionable thing even in the face of all of your lies. Because you laid your life down for him without a second thought. No traitor, not even one committed to a ruse, would do such a thing. Especially considering Gladio almost wasn’t able to bring you back... 

But right now, your “saintly” status means absolutely _nothing_ to Noctis. In fact, it urges him to action. The thought of you being harmed? The thought of you “taking one for the team,” as you’d so blithely called your death before? You’re in distress, he knows that. You’re still pissed off at him, he _knows that_. However, the latter outweighs the former and he’d much prefer getting on your nerves for the sake of watching your back. 

Behind the prince’s _own_ back, a silent drama takes place. 

You’re the recipient of many intense and pleading looks. The men exchange thin-lipped expressions of frustration and Prompto mouths, exaggerating his lip movements, “Just let him _go_!” He mouths something else, but nobody can decipher it. And you? Your stony face is just that: Stony and unmoving to the extreme. 

Your response is to both Noct’s stalwart protectors and Noct himself, “Okay. But it’s going to be so uneventful that the only harm that could possibly come to you is from sheer boredom.” 

It’s an assurance of his safety and the sucking up of your own godsdamned pride. “Well, have a care,” Ignis orders more than he states, emerald eyes flashing. 

“We will. See you all in a few hours,” you respond, icy veneer gone long enough to give everyone a genuine farewell. 

Then you snatch up your already packed bag and exit the hotel room. Noct is quick to follow, right on your heels all the while. Right now, you’re internally freaking the hell out. You hadn’t accounted for Noct’s pigheadedness when you considered how you were going to deal with the daemon issue. But you couldn’t be more obvious that _something_ is wrong if you tried. 

Tension is so thick one could choke on it. It _had_ to be him, huh? You had to fall for the unattainable prince and get rejected and _he had_ to be the one to insist on coming along with you to deal with a daemon in stolen human skin? Since the moment you two met, you and Noct have been far too involved in each other’s lives. It’s times like this that make you wonder if you should finally put your foot down; draw the line between professional and personal affairs. 

But, gods, you’ve blurred that line at every turn. Done it with an almost perverse zeal some days... okay, _most_ days. And after you got rejected you’ve had a hell of a time trying to re-draw the lines. They’re so muddied, though, that you can’t even tell where they used to be. They’ve been so muddied for so long. It’s a fact that makes it even harder for you to come to terms with everything. It’s not that you’re still _mad_... 

Yeah, you were livid at being strung along, however you’ve done what you always do best: Suppress inconvenient emotions and pretend they never existed. Is it healthy? Hell no. Do you still do it anyway? Duh. Though you aren’t angry, things are awkward because neither one of you has made any great effort to address the issue and move on. 

This completely unhelpful train of thought has you rubbing your eyes as you make your way down the hallway and toward the staircase leading to the lobby. 

The warm, earthy smell of coffee wafts up from the lobby alongside a lilting, pleasant voice interspersed with another individual’s more refined commentary. The former is definitely the daemon- you’re so damn sure because even though the voice is “new,” that crafty way of speaking is familiar. Which means the second voice belongs to the unfortunate man working at the lobby’s desk. Six, you knew the creature was giddy about having a voice, but _damn_. 

“ _Please don’t tell me I’m going to have to babysit_ ,” you internally groan. This day can’t get any worse and it’s barely 7:15 in the morning. 

“Who’s Orion? Really?” Oh, wait. It _can_ get worse. 

‘Cause Noctis Lucis Caelum isn’t dumb, in fact he’s so far from it that he’s given you a run for your money on many occasions. He’s not easily duped and seems to hang on to bits of information that you’ve unwittingly let slip over the time that you’ve known each other. You’re accustomed to people with such stunning memories, but usually they had memories like that for _blackmail_. Noct? He’s just... observant. 

But it’s unfortunate for you. 

Because as the two of you stop at the top of the stairs and look down at the lithe young man with his elbows planted on the lobby counter, a cup of coffee grasped with only his finely tapered fingertips, and the hotel worker smiling pleasantly at him, there’s just _something_ that strikes the royal as familiar about someone he’s positive he’s never met before. It’s in that haughty posture, even when stooped. It’s in that teasing but arrogant voice. 

“I told you already,” you say, interrupting Noct’s thoughts just as he begins to creep up on a strange conclusion, “he’s an old acquaintance.” 

Blue eyes flicker from you to the stranger in the lobby. “He seems nice.” 

You snort but don’t respond, continuing down the stairs and gliding up to the daemon who rights itself with a half-empty cup of coffee in hand. Noct follows. 

You’re having an internalized panic attack. Ah, your _favorite_ kind. The spacious lobby feels crowded and time seems to be slipping out of your fingers as you haphazardly slap together some sort of ruse for the prince to buy. You and the daemon were _supposed_ to take your moped to Cape  Caem and you were going to take the daemon into a cave or something to transform before boarding the boat. 

But now? With unexpected company? You’re going to have to take _Noct_ back on the scooter, leaving no room to tote around the daemon in human skin. It’s not as if you’ll be able to fit three people on Choco Jr. and randomly stop at a cave, enter with “Orion,” and come out with a random animal. And like hell would you be allowed to take Orion to Cape Caem in the first place. In this skin, the daemon isn’t your familiar. It’s an interloper. 

The daemon knows this. 

The corners of those brown eyes crinkle with a polite smile at the sight of _the_ Noctis Lucis Caelum. “Hello. We haven't properly met before.” You’re given that unfinished coffee to hold on to and a hand is shot out, intended for the brunet who stands beside you. “Orion. A pleasure.” 

Noct introduces himself simply as “Noct” before taking a good look at Orion. He’s roughly Specs’ height but he’s a bit more slight. It’s as if his build was _made_ to look nonthreatening, swathed in a dusky lavender cardigan that actually fits him as opposed to the bulky style you choose to wear. His face is open and pleasant; large dark eyes, a bow-shaped mouth, and a refined nose. 

Everything about his appearance is warm, but gods, his hand feels like ice. Noct lets go quickly 

“Noct is going to accompany us around Lestallum,” you stiffly inform the daemon, widening your eyes to convey to it that it needs to be on its best behavior or else the jig is up; that, given its capabilities for audible speech, it had better not take advantage of the situation in a way that inconveniences you or makes Noct uncomfortable for the sake of a gag, as the daemon is wont to do. Too bad one look at your widened eyes has the daemon poking its tongue into its cheek and winking. 

“ _Son of a bitch..._ ” 

Those somewhat hollow-looking brown eyes shift from you to alight on the reserved royal, eyebrows rising and smile growing, much to Noct’s confusion. What’s going on? Is there some sort of private joke he doesn’t know about? Hands are placed on narrow hips and the daemon cocks its head cutely. “Oh? On our little trip to haunt every last book purveyor in Lestallum? I thought that might seem boring to others. Are you an ardent scholar of the arcane, _Noct_?” 

Yikes. Calling him “Noct” is almost painful. But the daemon can’t rightly call him _Your Majesty_ , now can it? 

Though games of deception are entertaining, they also tend to go against the daemon’s nature. It must be just and true. It must be honorable. However, it understands the necessity of lies. If there’s one thing watching you grow up in the Spire taught it, it’s that wearing different masks is your forte, something that’s part of _your_ code of honor. And while the daemon has abstained from passing judgment, it’s difficult when a King is the one being deceived. 

Black coffee is swirled in the paper cup and you speak at the same time as Noct, “He’s currently-” 

“I actually-” Noct stops and the two of you exchange mildly annoyed looks. Gods, he hates when you talk for him (despite the fact that you _both_ do it to each other because you know of the other’s discomfort with public speaking). Little does he know you’re desperately trying to run interference between him and a sneaky daemon. When he’s sure you aren’t going to speak again, those steely blue eyes turn back onto the daemon and the prince finishes, “I actually study magic. (y/n) tutors me.” 

“Really? That’s nice.” Straight white teeth are on full display. “I’m sure you enjoy having them as your _personal tutor_.” 

A long, tortured sigh that sounds like it comes straight from your soul escapes you. That cup of cold coffee is placed on the counter and the worker quickly bustles away to toss it in the trash. Thankful that you don’t have an audience for this reprimand, you address the daemon, “Stop being a tease. Nobody needs you implying anything, you little _imp_.” 

Noct looks between the two of you; you with your bored frown and Orion with his boyish grin. 

Damn. Okay. Maybe you two _do_ know each other? Because, even with especially rude strangers, you’re always almost nauseatingly charming for the sake of maintaining appearances and in an effort to subtly shame others. Well, now he feels kinda awkward. Here he is, insisting on coming along with you because he wanted to protect you, and now he’s just a third-wheel. 

Except that “third-wheel” feeling isn’t something “Orion” allows Noctis to feel for much longer. If anything, as the day goes on, _you_ start to become the third-wheel for the daemon’s personal inquisition against Noct. The setting for these head games is picturesque: Cozy bookstores with smiling shopkeepers and Lestallum’s warm, sunny climate. It stands in sharp contrast to the two intense brown eyes that insistently hold Noct’s gaze. 

“ _Hey_ , Noct...?” Is how each question starts. Brown eyes are blinked slowly and a good-natured smile is flashed. Every interaction is initiated behind your back, as if to be done in secret despite the fact that your hearing is keen and you always shoot a warning look over your shoulder before the floodgates open and Noct drowns in Orion’s seemingly endless questions. Those questions vary in degree of intensity and appropriateness. 

_Several_ cross or toe the line into personal territory. You nip it in the bud each time with a patronizing cluck of your tongue and a sigh of, “Orion. _Enough_.” 

The three of you are in the last bookstore left in Lestallum. Each one has been systematically raided for books on ancient runes, summoning circles, and other sorts of niche black magic, of which there are few. But each little gem that’s unearthed is purchased with coin pilfered off of monster corpses and earned from hunts. Even a beginner’s guide on white magic is bought and you clench your teeth as it’s bagged for you and passed over the counter. 

Idle chatter has left no room for you to gather your wits in silence, even though you’ve played no part in it. Noct almost plays no role, either. Though he’s the subject of every talk, his responses are reserved and clipped. A skilled conversationalist, the creature talks circles around him and gently works him for innocuous information on his upbringing, education, and his hobbies when it isn’t being too prying. It’s trivial stuff. It’s stuff that strangers typically chat about to get to know each other. 

It’s stuff that’s meant to disarm. 

You’ve been a champ. You’ve been a team player if the team only consists of the daemon. Books have been stared at and purchased without much thought, pleasantries have been spouted from time to time, and you’ve been _patient_ on this hellish shopping spree. You’ve known that the daemon has a mischievous streak. You’ve _known that_. Yet you’re thrown for a loop all the same, like you haven’t had the privilege of getting to know the creature for weeks. 

It’s taking advantage of its human body in the worst way possible. 

It’s really unfortunate. The creature in stolen skin is becoming more and more like its former self. There’s rationality there in that corrupted mind, but it’s still corrupted. That rationality will fade when you breathe your last breath and send the daemon spiraling back into insanity. But in this moment, right now, it’s itself. An unfortunate thing for poor Noct. 

Because those brown eyes flash in the dimness of the old bookstore and Noctis swears he sees a flicker of fiery yellow for a split-second before he’s given one of the most condescending smiles he’s ever received in his entire life. It’s a crooked type of smile with just a hint of white teeth, warm brown eyes hooded and peering at him from beneath dark lashes. It’s _your_ smile. 

There’s no disrespect but there _is_ a confrontational edge to everything Orion has said and done up until this point. The edge grew more and more fine as you moved from one store to the next, keeping up the ruse that you and Orion were just meeting up to check out the city’s stock of books. The edge started to cut a little deeper the more you tried to insert yourself in each conversation for Noctis’ sake. The edge finally bites to the bone when you least expect it. 

You run your finger down the cracked spine of a thick tome, reading the title before pulling it from the shelf. Behind you, Orion leans against a sturdy bookshelf and quizzes Noct on the bits of information it’s been feeding him about itself; interests, its childhood, its GPA, the friends it made in the Spire as well as its reason for attending that institution, and all manner of falsehoods told in an effort to deflect suspicion. 

You just hope none of these lies are investigated or you’re both sunk. 

There’s a breathy, tired sigh followed by an inquisitive hum. It sounds like trouble and you’re absolutely correct. Because that lilt? That slight inflection disguised as innocent curiosity is known to you. It’s a telltale sign of the daemon’s impish nature. 

“Are you dating anyone? Oh, you’re _engaged_? Do you like the person you’re engaged to? Do you love them?” You quite possibly lose your sanity right then and there. You certainly lose your patience because you whirl around and put an end to that line of inquiry with a withering glare directed at the daemon. “What?” Orion asks innocently, bottom lip slightly pouted. Behind him, Noct’s cheeks are on fire. “It’s just _bros_ getting to know each other.” 

“Bros” comes off so foreign on the daemon’s tongue. Just the awkward sound of the word has you cringing and walking away rather than lambasting the daemon like you initially intended. You know what the creature is up to. None of this is surprising. When it told you that its job was to protect you, you thought it only meant from _physical_ harm. However, after you got rejected, you quickly realized the daemon takes its “protective” role a little too seriously. 

“We may be old acquaintances,” you call over your shoulder, eyeing another bookshelf but not finding anything of interest, “but that doesn’t give you a free pass to harass my friends, Orion. Knock it off.” 

A resigned sigh sounds off from behind you. “Oh, fine. But Noct and I were just having _fun_. Right, Noct?” 

No. _Hell_ no. That’s what Noct _wants_ to say. But he’s always been more of the uncomplaining sort around strangers. He may bitch and moan all the time around friends, but he was raised better than to act like a brat in... _polite_ company. And for whatever reason he feels like he has something to prove to this Orion guy _and_ to you. 

Especially since Orion seems to be putting his feelers out concerning Noct’s romantic availability. Which, to Noct, means you must’ve said something to him about Noct’s engagement and his non-rejection of you. 

Because it _wasn’t_ a rejection! 

Therein lies a _massive_ disconnect between what you two took away from your confession and Noct’s reaction. Before he could ask you to wait for him, you left. Before he could clarify that he wants to be with you, you misconstrued his struggle to find the right words as him politely trying to dismiss your affections. Such complex and fragile feelings. Such a mess of a situation. Perhaps Noct shouldn’t seek to capitalize on this moment with Orion in a public shop? 

But, with how evasive you are and how dodgy you’ve been these past few days, the raven-haired royal feels as if he doesn’t have many chances to explain himself. Being such a perceptive creature, the daemon eyes Noct up and down, takes in the sudden purposeful tension in his body, and trills, “Oh! Is that a copy of ‘ _Ancient Runes from Across Eos_ ’? I’ve been trying to get my hands on it for a while but it’s sold out everywhere. Excuse me.” 

As you turn on your heel, ready to say that that book is in abundance _everywhere_ because it’s absolute garbage, you freeze. 

The daemon is nowhere to be seen, having jetted off to some remote corner of the dusty bookstore, leaving you alone with Noct. The prince looks a little displaced in this musty old shop. Black clothes collect every bit of lint available in this place and there are even particles sitting atop his dark hair. Even if this is part of the “scholarly aesthetic” that the shop is looking for, they need to dust every once in a while. 

“Orion went that way,” Noct informs you, gesturing vaguely to his right. He’d watched the brunet speed-walk away with his tongue between his teeth before ducking behind a bookcase. When you simply hum in response, your comrade asks haltingly, “Uh... Can we talk?” 

“Always,” you respond immediately even though you don’t mean it right now. 

‘Cause you have a sneaking suspicion of what he wants to talk about and you aren’t sure if you’re ready for it. Not after the daemon has been exercising and testing the limits of your patience, at least. You tell yourself that closure is a good thing. This is how you work yourself up to dealing with rehashing bad feelings. Putting on a neutral expression, you walk over to a secluded part of the store and gesture for Noct to follow. 

He takes a while to gather his thoughts. It’s _torture_ for you. 

Eyes rake over his face a few times before his tense expression starts to make your anxiety explode. Why does he look so sick? Oh, _no_... You take to looking at books. They’re all muted shades of green, blue, brown, and red nestled in wooden bookshelves. The air smells of stale coffee, a cat’s litter box, and traces of the shopkeeper’s perfume that was applied with a heavy hand- something floral and cheap because there’s a lot of alcohol in the scent. 

“So...” you drawl when the silence drags on for an eternity. Yeah, you’re _not_ making it any better with that pathetic contribution. There’s movement beyond Noct and you see the daemon peeking through a bookshelf before it realizes it’s been spotted and backs away. Oh, _hell_ no. Reinvigorated, you clap Noct on the shoulder and smile. “If this is about before, don’t worry about it, Noct. We’re good.” 

Blue eyes bore into yours. Pale brow creases in frustration and the prince internally scolds himself. With a silent inhale for courage, Noct confesses on the exhale, “We aren’t good, (y/n). At least not yet.” 

Noct should win an award for being able to say the _worst thing imaginable_ even after taking eons to come up with the right thing to say. 

“Oh?” You query, dying on the inside because it comes out so high and alarmed. The sight of the shopkeep raising her eyebrows at you makes you repeat, tone almost comically low, “Oh?” 

Noct shoots you a bizarre look for that. “Uh... yeah. The thing is, I didn’t get to tell you everything I needed to tell you before.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes downcast a moment before looking back up at you. “I... You can say no.” 

Okay, you’re lost. What the heck is he going on about? Patient as ever, you ask, “Say ‘no’ to what?” 

“It’s just that I need to settle things and I was wondering if...” Noct sighs. He looks nervous which is making you nervous which is making the snooping daemon nervous which is making the shopkeeper’s cat nervous as it weaves around the daemon’s ankles. A few years pass. Hands tremble before Noct shoves them into his pockets. “This sounds so selfish and stupid but... I was wondering if you’d wait for me?” 

The guy is honestly just grateful that he managed to spit it out without vomiting or bailing on the conversation altogether. Sadly, he needed to preface that question with an explanation of what the heck he was even talking about. Because you’re in the dark and too pragmatic to allow yourself to be blindly hopeful. Jumping to conclusions led you astray once and you aren’t about to do it again... with an _audience_. 

Lavender cardigan is hugged to your body even though the shop is a little warm. It’s as if scratchy wool is the finest armor on Eos, the way you seem to hide your body with it before parroting, “Wait for you?” 

“(y/n),” blurts Noct, tone guarded. The set of his jaw has you on edge. He seems to be clenching his teeth with the way the muscles in his cheeks and neck twitch. 

“Yes?” You ask, tone light in the vain hope of putting him at ease. 

Noct, who is already incredibly pale, goes _pale_. Blue eyes are unblinking and his mouth is drier than a desert. Chest stills as he holds his breath a moment before confessing, voice so shaky that it shames him, “I think I love you.” 

“ _Oh_...” That monosyllabic response rings hollow. The way you blink in bemused surprise makes the voyeuristic daemon cover its face with its hands. For a long time, you just stand there as that confession takes its sweet time sinking in. And then it hits you. And then you see how Noct waits for your response, stock-still and with bits of dust floating around him like faeries in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Is this real life? Oh, shit! You should say something, right? “Thank you?” 

“ _Ramuh, why?!_ ” 

Noct is quick to respond, “You’re welcome.” Ah, two losers in love, just rolling with the socially inept punches. A shy smile struggles to work its way onto his face until Noct sighs for the umpteenth time. Hands are shoved so far into his pockets that it’s a miracle he doesn’t bust the seams. “Everything is complicated and I didn’t want to seem like I was leading you on. I’ve felt like I _have been_ and I’m really sorry about that. I just want you to know that I _do_ genuinely care about you. This hasn’t just been a game for me.” 

“Oh. I see.” Someone snorts and snaps you out of your daze. You _know_ who it is, but you don’t have the time to check-out of this conversation, scold the daemon, and then check back in. “Thank you for clarifying things.” Now that that’s settled, you feel a bit awkward and _definitely_ feel like you need to clarify things even more since you can’t find it in yourself to be over the moon just yet. Leaning against the bookshelf, you query, “So, you _think_ you love me, hm?” 

Pale cheeks turn pink. “I haven’t been in love before. Not, like, romantically or anything. Unless you count cartoon characters,” he jokes lamely and then immediately dies. _Why_ does he have to be so lame? _Why_ does he have to die from his own cringiness? _Why_ can’t he be smooth like Gladio? But at least his dorkiness is good for something because you laugh for the first time in a while before you can slap your hand over your mouth. 

Eyes are crescents as you snigger at Noct’s expense, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. The brunet pouts but there’s a hidden smile there. You ask, still laughing, “Oh? Which cartoon character do I need to compete with? I’ll mess them up.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Noct groans, gently shoving your shoulder. “I was like thirteen.”  


“In all seriousness, Noctis,” you sober up so fast that you give the royal whiplash, “I will.” 

“You’ll what?” He asks, now the one left in the dark. 

“I’ll wait for you.” Expression is so sincere that it makes the prince’s heart hurt. How is it possible for you to do that to him with just a look? “I’ll always wait for you, Noctis, because you’re worth waiting for.” 

He’s as red as a cherry. He thinks his heart might have stopped. He thinks this might be one of the best days of his life. Yet all he can say is, “You’re so lame.” 

Acidic wit is on the tip of your tongue when you remember that you have a one-person audience. “We have to get going now, Orion,” you call out, watching as the daemon steps out from behind a bookshelf with an innocent look on its face. The second the three of you step outside into the warm afternoon air after you’ve purchased one last book, you address the daemon once more, “It’s been fun catching up.” 

“You bet. I really enjoyed meeting your boyfriend.” The daemon turns to Noct and shoots him a fond look. “Thank you for taking such great care of (y/n).” 

Now, Noct pauses. Now, Noct wonders. Now, the daemon has really gone and mucked it all up. In the final few moments of this great act, everything unravels. One raw, sentimental statement is the undoing of a contrived ruse. Because that concern of Orion’s for your well-being triggers a final alarm bell for the royal. He recalls the flash of yellow in those brown eyes and how he thought Orion’s speech patterns and mannerisms were familiar. 

And he suddenly knows.

And he doesn’t know what to think of this latest development. 

“Right,” you sigh at the creature’s pushiness. Gods, what’s this thing’s angle? Is it _trying_ to drive you mad? Irritation is covered up with a prim smile and a polite, “But do you mind if we have a private word before I head out?” 

There’s that toothy grin again. “Of course!” 

“Wait right here, please,” you say to Noct. He makes no objection, too caught up in his own troubling thoughts as you wander further down the alley with the daemon on your heels. A corner is turned and you round on the daemon right as it enters the new alley with you. “What in the everloving _hell_ was all of that about?” You hiss. 

The daemon beams. “You should be thanking me. You got a good talk out of this trip, didn’t you?”

“ _Thank_ you?” You balk. 

“You’re welcome.” The daemon adjusts its sweater, looking proud of itself. In this dingy alley full of pipes and garbage bins, the sharply dressed daemon looks so out of place and so do you. You’re a couple of snooty looking Spire mages hanging out in a dirty alley. “Do you think you can convince the others to let me come along? Call it vanity, but I’d quite like to meet the Oracle with an attractive face.” 

A derisive snort leaves you. “Absolutely not.” 

That head of neatly combed brown hair bobs. “Ah, that might be pushing it. You’re right. I’ll just pop in from time to time when you’re in more populated areas that are less... _emotionally_ charged. It would be too suspicious if I appeared at a campground or something of that nature, too.” 

“It would be suspicious if you showed up again at all.” Arms cross over your chest and you ask, “What makes you think you’re gonna meet the Oracle, anyway?” 

“Because I’m always with you, of course,” the daemon responds smartly, almost condescending. “But I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow me to wear this face sometimes. It feels nice to walk on two legs and to be able to speak and be heard. It feels... I can’t describe it. To have a face again...” 

“Okay,” you easily relent, if only to cut this conversation short so you can leave. Your consent is also motivated a bit by pity, though you’ll never admit to that. “But don’t make a habit of it.” 

“Only if necessary,” the daemon assents. “Orion Spiros had a slight affinity for fire spells that I can utilize to your benefit. But a formal request to take this form isn’t the only thing I’d hoped to bend your ear over. The time draws near and we must speak about the Oracle.” 

“ _Wait. What?_ ”

Puzzled, you ask, “What time draws near?” 

“I just wanted to say... It was good of you to extend your protection to the Oracle," the daemon expertly dodges, because now you’re distracted by an even more puzzling statement. 

"Why bring that up so suddenly?” You ask uneasily. 

A pointed look is shot your way. "We’re going to Altissia. We’ll be seeing her soon, so it seemed a right enough time to tell you that I know about the pact you made with the Oracle. While Lysandra failed in her duty, blinded by pride and patriotism, I’m positive you’ll do what it takes to fulfill your family’s duty to _both_ family lines. The Mage protects the King above all else but what is a Mage if they don’t uphold contracts?" 

“Right,” you drawl, made uncomfortable by the daemon’s extensive knowledge of the goings on of your life, past and present. “I have to go now. Sorry that I have to leave you behind, by the way.” 

“Of course. It couldn’t be helped. Drive safe- you’ll be toting around precious cargo.” The daemon shoots you a reassuring smile and pats your shoulder, so familiar like an old relative you haven’t seen in an age. “I’ll be there before you know it, dear.” 

Something about that rhetorical question strikes you as odd. So strange for the daemon to talk about that old, secretive pact; that promise between two families. Not borne out of lust, as rumored by those who discovered the secret, but out of a whisper in an ancestor's ear from a lipless mouth eons ago. The daemon sees the power of that family line, bestowed by Bahamut, and seeks to amplify it and _use_ it. 

“You ready to go?” You ask Noct and he heads your way, following by your side. The two of you make your way out of the maze of alleyways to get across the street, caught up in your own thoughts. The sound of soft footsteps makes you lengthen your stride and mindlessly ask your charge, “Excited to set sail?” 

Noct shoots you a strange look. “Yeah.” 

As you start up the moped and head down the road, the daemon’s words echo in your mind. You watch the daemon in your side mirror as it exits the alley. It keeps one hand up in a motionless wave, a serene smile on those lips and those dark eyes unblinking. 

All this time, you’ve been looking forward to getting to Altissia. There were many bumps in the road, but it’s finally happening. And yet... Eyes glance in the side mirror once more. The smile is gone from the daemon’s face. That hand drops back down to its side and it turns away to reenter the dark, dingy little alley.

* * *

**Prompto**

As you climb the steps up to the second floor of the hotel, leaving the daemon to sit patiently in the lobby, you wonder just how many layers of deception you can sink into. Then you sigh at how dramatic that thought is. Are you a mage or an actor? Actually... that’s not a very good question because with the amount of fibbing you’ve been doing, you’re akin to someone playing a role. 

“ _And it’s all for a good purpose_ ,” you tell yourself. 

Because, honestly, what good would it do to reveal that the conventionally attractive young man struggling to sip coffee in the lobby is actually an ancient daemon wearing the skin of a man the creature killed over a decade ago? Killed in order to protect _you_? It’d assuage your guilt and that’s all. That’s the only good thing that would likely come of it. 

And though you hate to be one of those people who weighs the morality of their actions based on outcomes, it’s become more and more of a necessity. Funny, that. Truth is too convenient but only for you and lies are necessary in order to not burden the others who are already far too burdened to begin with. In keeping your lips sealed, at least for now, you alleviate a burden they’re unaware of. 

“A good rationale,” you murmur bitterly under your breath, hand shoved in the pocket of your pants to fish out your hotel room key. It’s quiet on the other side of the door, you note. Eyebrow pops up of its own accord. Typically, at this hour, Noct has already been roused and he and Prom tend to be a bit rowdy when together. 

Breath stilling in your chest despite the fact that detection is 100% not even a possibility at this moment, you lean forward and press your ear to the door in the hopes of hearing what’s going on. You can’t hear a thing save for maybe utensils hitting a plate and the occasional rumble of Gladiolus’ deep voice. 

You step away from the door and sigh.

On the other side, everyone is having breakfast in the hotel room before setting off for Cape Caem. Despite it just being the four of them, they speak in hushed tones. Your name is a whisper gently falling from downturned lips, blue eyes flash with displeasure as Prompto talks about what he saw in the alleyway near the hotel. Teeth capture a chapped bottom lip, pale eyebrows furrow. 

“You say this man was dressed like a Spire mage?” Asks Ignis, cup of coffee in hand but otherwise untouched. “He wore a sweater like (y/n)’s and looked to be about... twenty-five?” 

“Yeah. A little older than any of us but not by much. And he said his name was Orion,” Prompto adds. Fingers fidget with a fork, twirling it around and using it to poke at the scrambled eggs on his plate. Somehow, the empty seat next to his feels even emptier. The blond can’t help the way his bottom lip slightly pouts out when he casts your rapidly cooling breakfast a sidelong glance. 

He can’t stop thinking about how that stranger acted with you. He was far too familiar. Gods, it took _ages_ for you to allow Prom to so much as pat your shoulder without making an uncomfortable face. And that guy back there? In the alley? The two of you were barely an arm’s length away and he’d been rubbing your shoulders, head ducked and eyes peering into yours. 

An uncomfortable, squirmy feeling wriggles into Prompto’s gut. It makes him feel sick. It spoils his appetite and makes him want to curl up in bed and just... not even sleep, actually. A sudden thought strikes him like a bolt of lightning. Did you have a boyfriend back in the Spire? Was that him? Prom realizes he never asked if you ever dated anyone- it never really seemed like it was his business, it felt too _invasive_. 

To be honest, he always worked under the assumption that you _had_ dated people. Even if, in passing, you said otherwise, Prompto Argentum could never wrap his head around the idea that someone as charming and funny as (y/n) Iovita hadn’t ever dated anyone. To him, you just seem like the sort of person _everyone_ would want to be with. 

Which is why you took him by surprise by even sparing him a second glance... 

Noct catches on to his friend’s discomfort. He sees the way Prompto stares blankly down at the fluffy yellow eggs. “You said (y/n) said they’d be here soon, right?” 

“Uh-huh,” Prom barely affirms, snapping out of his thoughts to give his best friend a strained smile. 

“Well,” the brunet suggests, “if they don’t show up in the next five minutes, we’ll go look for ‘em.” 

“Yeah.” 

The older men exchange stern looks. From everything you told them, you didn’t have any friends in the Spire. However, this wouldn’t be the first time they caught you in a lie with regard to your interpersonal relationships within that ancient college. But the setting seems a little odd. _And_ the timing. They’re about to head out to Altissia... 

While unlikely, there’s always been an underlying fear of spies. There’s always been the need for discretion, which made your little Vine debut so vexing for everyone. So while Noct and Prom are thinking along the lines of “romantic rivalry,” Gladio and Iggy are thinking you got yourself cornered by an imperial while on one of your usual nightly strolls. 

That damn habit of yours: Jetting off _alone_. Before your face was made known to the entire damn world, Ignis and Gladiolus _tolerated_ your little trips out into the wilderness to collect plants and junk. But now there’s a very real possibility that you’ll get yourself abducted. Especially when they think about the chancellor’s strange interest in you. 

It’s a fear that’s conveyed through a single look. 

Just as the older men are about to stand, the door to the hotel room opens and you waltz right in, wearing all of your usual airs. Keen green eyes immediately zero in on the tear and the blood on your sweater. There’s an inquiry followed by the heat of three other gazes. You’re relieved to be out of the musty old alley and in the comfort of one of the hotel’s cozy rooms, but the severity in everyone’s gaze makes you want to walk right back out. 

Everyone is looking at you like you were just murdered in front of them and not like you just have a tiny bit of blood on you... and you no longer even _have_ a wound! Guilt crashes over Prompto. He thinks this “Orion” guy did this to you. And what did _he_ do? Prom left you cornered in an alley with a stranger. Against his better judgment, he left you alone. Against his better judgment, he ignored the tension in your body and allowed himself to become meek under your intense gaze. 

The sharpshooter stands, ready to come over and inspect you, but you wave everyone off. “I was out late last night and early this morning looking for mushrooms when I fell. I didn’t have any potions, but luckily for me, I ran into an old acquaintance from the Spire and he had a potion on hand.” Eyes turn to Prom. “Which is what you walked in on. I was unaware that Orion, a guy I graduated with, was here in Lestallum.” 

“How fortuitous,” drawls Iggy, oozing suspicion. 

“Yes,” you counter, shooting the strategist a pointed look, “quite. I’m just stopping by to gather my things. I’m going to catch up with Orion and I’ll meet you all in Cape Caem.” 

Everyone knows better than to argue with you when you wear the face that you’ve chosen to don right now. It’s unblinking eyes set in an otherwise expressionless mask; cold, calculating, and eerily stoic. Once, Noct said you could interrogate people with that expression alone, no need for torture or any other sort of scare tactics... _just_ that face. 

So, Prompto surprises everyone, including himself, when he stands back up out of his seat, blue eyes blazing, and insists with a smile, “I’ll go with you. I’d love to meet one of your friends. Who knows? Maybe he’ll have some funny stories about you!” His words and the intention apparent in his eyes don’t match. Prom has never been a very good liar. Well, at least not to you: The Bloodhound Mage, as Gladio sometimes calls you. 

That built-in lie detector of yours is something the men often marvel over. It’s a bit disquieting but ultimately something they choose to find amusement in, relying on you on the rare chance that someone’s intentions are unknown. However, there’s always the underlying question of _how_ you’d developed such an odd skill-set in the first place. This leads to a strange deviation in thought. This makes your quirky little skill an uncomfortable thing to ponder. 

Wicked eyes maintain too much eye contact than Prompto Argentum is comfortable with. To the blond, he reads displeasure in that stare. But honestly? You’re trying to understand where his sudden distrust is rooted and you aren’t quite sure you like the answer you keep coming to. The set of his jaw and the gleam in his eye... You sigh, “Like I said, he’s an _acquaintance_.” 

“Still. I’ll go with you.” 

He’s insistent and pushy, which has you slowly closing your eyes to imagine grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. As entitled as it sounds, typically everyone allows you to do your own thing. There’s a certain amount of “mysticism” that shrouds you and protects you from the usual line of inquiry that you would be subjected to if you were anyone other than (y/n) Iovita. A luxury borne from your family name and your credentials as a Spire mage. 

It’s also the byproduct of your death and the many near-misses that followed in the wake of such a traumatic event. Honestly? It’s a little humorous. The fact that you died once for Noct has made your loyalty an unquestionable thing even in the face of all of your lies. Because you laid your life down for him without a second thought. No traitor, not even one committed to a ruse, would do such a thing. Especially considering Gladio almost wasn’t able to bring you back... 

But right now, your “saintly” status means absolutely _nothing_ to Prompto. He won’t allow it to get in his way because he feels as though if he buckles again under those intense eyes of yours, _you’ll_ be the one paying the price. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you to make smart choices... it’s just that now there’s some unknown factor named “Orion” (he pettily thinks that’s a dumb name) thrown in the mix. An unknown factor that was all up on his favorite mage... 

After a long moment in which everyone awkwardly continues to eat breakfast and converse with each other, you relent, “Fine. If you insist.” 

“Yeah. I do.” Prom internally cringes at how snappish and kinda bitchy his response is. Though he has good intentions and he _knows_ he has good intentions _even if_ there’s a bit of dumb jealousy there, he fears you won’t see it the same way. He fears that, after that kiss that he’s thought about for _days_ , his protective instincts might be misconstrued as some gross way of... staking claim? 

“Well, I guess we’ll see you two later,” Noct says, eyeing his two friends. The raven-haired royal already knows about you two dating. Prompto made it so damn obvious with his near constant “dreamy” sighs that practically begged Noct to ask what the deal was. And then Noct accidentally saw a picture of you on your knees and Prom nearly died... 

“Don’t tell them you saw!” Prompto had begged, red as a cherry and near death. “I knew I should’ve deleted them, but-!” 

Noct fought back a laugh long enough to seriously ask, “What the hell is that all about? (y/n) looks pissed in that photo.” 

“Ah... it was... a game?” 

And Noct didn’t need to hear any more. Seriously, the brunet _really_ didn’t need to know whether or not his blond best friend was into kinky shit and roped his arcane advisor into it. Or was it you who was into...? Ugh. No. He really didn’t need to think about that. All he needed to think about was getting to Altissia. And that’s all he let’s himself think about _right now_ , even with how intensely Prompto starts staring at you. 

“Take care,” you respond, icy veneer gone long enough to give everyone a genuine farewell. Then you snatch up your already packed bag and exit the hotel room. Prompto scrambles to follow. Right now, you’re internally freaking the hell out. You hadn’t accounted for Prompto’s clinginess when you considered how you were going to deal with the daemon issue. But honestly you couldn’t be more obvious that something is wrong if you tried. 

To Prompto, the one who knows you perhaps better than most, every angle in your body screams that you’re anxious. And he can’t have that- he can’t just let that go. He hurls a million questions at your back, tense and just as anxious as you must be. “Is that guy giving you any trouble?” He asks, voice low to engender feelings of privacy. Fingers attempt to twine through yours. 

“Who? Orion?” You ask awkwardly, because it’s obvious who he’s talking about. Just to throw him off your suspicious trail, you give his hand a quick squeeze and give him a peck on the cheek that’s more a clumsy bump of your nose against his cheekbone which makes him blush prettily all the same. 

Prom shoots you a serious look, pale brow slightly furrowed but not too furrowed. He doesn’t want you thinking he’s upset with you. “Yeah. It’s strange that he’d just run into you here. Maybe he’s a stalker?” 

You snort but don’t respond, not wanting to tell him just how accurate that description is, though he doesn’t know you’ve been stalked from birth. Gods, Prom feels like he’s having to chase after you with how quickly you descend the stairs after letting go of his hand. Are you mad? ‘Cause you seem like you’re mad, flying down the stairs and gliding up to Orion who stands up with a half-empty cup of coffee in hand. The way the man smiles makes Prom bristle. 

While Prompto has his little moment of irritation, you’re having your own personal, internalized panic attack. Ah, your favorite kind. The spacious lobby feels crowded and time seems to be slipping out of your fingers as you haphazardly slap together some sort of ruse for the blond to buy. You and the daemon were _supposed_ to take your moped to Cape Caem and you were going to take the daemon into a cave or something to transform before boarding the boat. 

But now? With unexpected company? You’re going to have to take Prompto back on the scooter, leaving no room to tote around the daemon in human skin. It’s not as if you’ll be able to fit three people on Choco Jr. and randomly stop at a cave, enter with “Orion,” and come out with a random animal. And like hell would you be allowed to take Orion to Cape Caem in the first place. In this skin, the daemon isn’t your familiar. It’s an interloper. 

The daemon knows this. 

The corners of those brown eyes crinkle with an amused smirk at the sight of Prompto Argentum. Oh, the daemon _knew_ it liked that blond for a reason. He’s just too much fun. “Hello. We didn’t get to properly introduce ourselves before.” You’re given that unfinished coffee to hold on to and a hand is shot out, intended for the blond who stands behind you. You’re forced to step aside so Prompto can see that stilted attempt at a greeting. Lips twitch from an amused smirk to an amiable smile. “Orion. A pleasure.” 

Prompto hastens to return the greeting. Now that he’s face-to-face with Orion and in better lighting, he takes a good look at him. He’s roughly Ignis’ height but he’s a bit more slight. It’s as if his build was _made_ to look nonthreatening, swathed in a dusky lavender cardigan that actually fits him as opposed to the bulky style you choose to wear. His face, Prom hates to admit, is... appealing; large dark eyes, a bow-shaped mouth, and a refined nose. 

Everything about his appearance is warm, but gods, his hand feels like ice.

“Prompto is going to accompany us around Lestallum,” you stiffly inform the daemon, widening your eyes to convey to it that it needs to be on its best damn behavior or else the jig is up; that, given its capabilities for audible speech, it had better not take advantage of the situation in a way that inconveniences you or makes Prompto uncomfortable for the sake of a gag, as the daemon is wont to do. Too bad one look at your widened eyes has the daemon poking its tongue into its cheek and winking. 

“ _Son of a bitch..._ ” 

Those somewhat hollow-looking brown eyes shift from you to alight on the jittery shutterbug, eyebrows rising and smile growing, much to the blond’s chagrin. Hands are placed on narrow hips and the daemon cocks its head cutely. “Oh? On our little trip to haunt every last book purveyor in Lestallum? I thought that might seem boring to others. Are you an ardent scholar of the arcane, Prompto?” 

Freckled cheeks flush. Is this guy trying to make him feel inferior just because _he_ shares your interests and Prompto doesn’t? ‘Cause it’s never been an issue before! While you’re not a technophile and he’s not a bibliophile, you enjoy each other’s company and that’s always been good enough for Prom. Except now... that teasing brown gaze makes him feel like he’s being left out of the loop. Like there’s some private joke and he’s the only one excluded. 

Chin jutted out a tad, Prompto huffs, “No. Though I’m interested in magic, for sure, I don’t study it.” 

“Ah. Well, that’s all right. By the end of the day, I think I might convert you.” Straight white teeth are on full display. “I’ll be your personal pedagogue, if you’d like.” 

“If he wants to learn, he can come to me,” you snap. Oh, boy. Is that a tension headache coming on? Must be. And it skyrockets from a slight tightening in your frontal lobe to a vise about your skull when you hear a few pairs of footsteps behind you. The daemon’s stolen face pulls into a deferent expression at the sight of Noctis, something that doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. The others come to stand by you and Prom while Iggy checks out at the desk. 

A charming, boyish smile is flashed at everyone in the lobby. “So, you’re (y/n)’s friends? That’s so rad.” 

There’s a long, painful silence. That old cliché about being able to hear a pin drop? Yeah, that applies here as everyone wonders why this guy’s slang is as painfully outdated as yours. Is it a mage thing? In your defense, your slang isn’t _that_ outdated. One hand comes up over your mouth and you stare into the dark depths of the daemon’s cold, unfinished coffee, filled with existential dread. 

“We were just leaving,” you blurt, nearly crushing the paper cup in your hand. “We’ll see you all later.” 

And that’s that. Except, of course, that’s _not_ that. Though you escape the peculiar looks from the other guys, you still have Prompto to dance around, which, to be fair, would be easy if the daemon would stop insisting on engaging the sharpshooter. In this moment, you’d much prefer to come across cold and distant than continue to have Prom constantly dragged into semi- confrontational conversations with an ancient daemon. 

For his part, Prompto is _exhausted_. He’s not the confrontational sort unless someone he cares for is in danger and this guy keeps sending him so many signals. There’s flirtation followed by back-handed compliments and acidic smiles. There are weighted looks that seem to rip through his soul. You said you were gonna catch up with Orion, right? So, why is this guy busy grilling Prompto like a cheese sandwich? 

At a food stall, the three of you sit and eat kabobs. Thus far, you’ve evaded being the topic of discussion but your luck runs out just as your soda does when the daemon suddenly says, “Did you know that sometimes Iovita mages would have familiars? Usually they didn’t change form unless the mage was incredibly skilled and powerful.” Brown eyes blink at you. “I didn’t know (y/n) had one until we bumped into each other last night.” 

It’s trying to make your lack of familiar less suspicious... but, up until this point, Prompto hadn’t even realized you were without your strange friend. He’s been too preoccupied by a chatty brunet with a penchant for casual touches and toothy smiles. Now? Now the daemon has gone and screwed everything all up by trying to be “thorough.” 

"Six, just shut up,” you hiss under your breath. 

Prompto’s cheeks are red as he looks between you and Orion. He bitterly thinks to himself that Orion is a damn flirt. What he refuses to acknowledge is that Orion is _a lot_ like you, actually. Prom forces a smile as well as a laugh. “Heh. Kinda... Kinda sounds like you’ve gotta crush there, Orion.” 

It’s lucky that Orion’s bizarre fondness for you is able to properly distract from this sudden and highly suspicious talk of familiars. The daemon does a bang-up job of keeping the heat off when it chuckles in response to Prompto’s somewhat accusatory statement, “You bet I do! But (y/n) was just too cool for anyone- _way_ out of everyone’s league. I was the head of their fan club.” 

“I didn’t have a fan club!” You scoff, drinking watered down soda from the very bottom of your cup. The loud sucking noise sadly isn’t enough to drown out the daemon’s chatter. 

“Oh, yes you did.” Those chocolate brown eyes widen marginally and you begin to think that the daemon is actually telling the truth. About the fan club not about being the captain or whatever. “We were all just too intimidated by you to say anything.” 

“I know that feeling,” Prom murmurs into his drink. He almost wishes he hadn’t insisted on tagging along. You’ve been rather distant up until this point and he feels like an intruder. 

“They just seem so different outside of the Spire. Happier.” Orion looks at him with a genuinely kind smile. “I guess it’s because of you. Thank you for taking such great care of (y/n).” 

Prompto doesn’t respond. He just looks at the brunet with darkened blue eyes. 

What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean? “Thanks for taking care of (y/n)?” Who does this guy think he is? Prom doesn’t want to be rude, but obviously this guy didn’t mean much to you if you never brought him up. That ugly side of himself wants to say just that. But he’s too damn nice. And he’d much rather not stick his foot in it right in front of you. The three of you move on and continue shopping. 

This is the last bookstore in Lestallum. Each one has been systematically raided for books on ancient runes, summoning circles, and other sorts of niche black magic, of which there are few. But each little gem that’s unearthed is purchased with coin pilfered off of monster corpses and earned from hunts. Even a beginner’s guide on white magic is bought and you clench your teeth as it’s bagged for you and passed over the counter. 

Idle chatter has left no room for you to gather your wits in silence, even though you’ve played no part in it. Prompto fights valiantly but his elocution is nowhere near on par with the daemon’s. A skilled conversationalist, the creature talks circles around him and gently works him for information on his upbringing, education, and the prominent figures in his life... even if the blond would prefer to keep some of that information to himself. 

You’ve been a champ. You’ve been a team player if the team only consists of the daemon. Books have been stared at and purchased without much thought, pleasantries have been spouted, and street food has been consumed on this hellish shopping spree. You’ve known that the daemon has a mischievous streak. You’ve _known that_. Yet you’re thrown for a loop all the same, like you haven’t had the privilege of getting to know the creature for weeks. 

It’s taking advantage of its human body in the worst way possible. 

It’s really unfortunate. The creature in stolen skin is becoming more and more like its previous self. There’s rationality there in that corrupted mind, but it’s still corrupted. That rationality will fade when you breathe your last breath and send the daemon spiraling back into insanity. But in this moment, right now, it’s itself. An unfortunate thing for poor Prompto Argentum. 

Because those brown eyes flash in the dimness of the old bookstore and Prompto swears he sees a flicker of fiery yellow for a split-second before he’s given one of the most condescending smiles he’s ever received in his entire life. It’s a crooked type of smile with just a hint of white teeth, warm brown eyes hooded and peering at him from beneath dark lashes. It’s _your_ smile. 

You run your finger down the cracked spine of a thick tome, reading the title before pulling it from the shelf. Behind you, Orion leans against a sturdy bookshelf and quizzes Prompto on the bits of information it’s been feeding the blond about itself; interests, its childhood, its GPA, the friends it made in the Spire as well as its reason for attending that institution, and all manner of falsehoods told in an effort to deflect suspicion. 

You just hope none of these lies are investigated or you’re both sunk. 

There’s a breathy, tired sigh followed by an inquisitive hum. It sounds like trouble and you’re absolutely correct. Because that lilt? That slight inflection disguised as innocent curiosity is known to you. It’s a telltale sign of the daemon’s impish nature. “We’ve been getting to know each other, Prom- may I call you Prom? Good. Well, we’ve been getting to know each other on this delightful outing and I find myself wondering... Are you (y/n)’s lover?” 

“Wh-What?” Prom sputters, cheeks turning crimson at the question. “Ah... (y/n)?” 

You can just imagine those blue eyes bugging out as he squeaks for your aid and if you’d turn around you’d find that you’re right. The sharpshooter is thrown completely off-guard by that bold question and he fidgets under that intense, unblinking stare. It’s an honest question. The daemon has been wondering for a while... It doesn’t like for things to be unsettled, especially not where you’re concerned. Especially not where it’s possible for you to wind up hurt. 

And when you told it that you hadn’t set anything in stone with Prompto after it badgered you to know how your “alone time” went, the daemon started brooding. Its mood soured against the blond, which was an unfortunate thing since it quite likes him. This tonal shift was something you immediately noticed and you tried to set the record straight. “We’re dating,” you’d clarified in vain. “It’s not as if it’s your business, anyway.” 

When you don’t come to his rescue, Prompto slowly buries himself. “I mean... _I’d_ like to think so. They’re the coolest and kindest person I’ve ever met and they... kiss... well...” 

Heat prickles the back of your neck. Whipping around, you dig in your pocket, pull out the freakin’ _roach_ , and murmur something to it, effectively putting an end to Prompto’s slow death as he shrieks at the sight of it. The daemon looks away, shoulders shaking imperceptibly, and you want to punch it in the kidney. Instead, you grudgingly put the crispy roach corpse back in your pocket and head over to the register to purchase your relic of a book. 

The daemon follows shortly after. So does Prompto. 

With that invasive nature, the daemon effectively sets the stage for a heart-to-heart that you and the blond are going to have whether you like it or not. Because Prompto doesn’t like to leave things up in the air, either. Not where you’re concerned. And judging by how you shut the conversation down, he hopes _he’s_ not gonna get shut down when he eventually pulls you aside at camp for a proper sit down to discuss your least favorite topic: Feelings. 

“We have to get going now, Orion,” you announce the second the three of you step outside into the warm afternoon air. Choco Jr. is visible from this alley, sitting pretty across the road. He looks like sweet, sweet freedom. You’re mentally exhausted and already well beyond the limits of your patience. “It’s been fun catching up.” 

“You bet. I really enjoyed meeting your boyfriend.” 

“Right,” you sigh at the creature’s pushiness. Gods, what’s this thing’s angle? Is it _trying_ to drive you mad? Irritation is covered up with a prim smile and a polite, “But do you mind if we have a private word before I head out?” 

There’s that toothy grin again. “Of course!” 

“Wait right here, please,” you say to Prom. When you see his troubled expression, you cup his cheek. It’s an awkward gesture and purely instinctual on your part. The good thing is that it’s _incredibly affectionate_ and Prompto’s face is replaced by a tomato. He makes no objection as you wander further down the alley with the daemon. A corner is turned and you round on the daemon right as it turns. “What in the everloving _hell_ was all of that?” You hiss. 

The daemon beams. “I think he likes me.”

“He thinks you’re creepy! He thinks you’re a stalker!” 

“But does he think I’m a daemon? No. I’d say I did a good job. Good work with the roach. I knew it would come in handy.” The daemon adjusts its sweater, looking proud of itself. In this dingy alley full of pipes, refuse, and garbage bins, the sharply dressed daemon looks out of place and so do you. You’re a couple of snooty looking Spire mages hanging out in a dirty alley. “Do you think you can convince the others to let me come along? Call it vanity, but I’d quite like to meet the Oracle with an attractive face.” 

A derisive snort leaves you. “Absolutely not.” 

That head of neatly combed brown hair bobs. “Ah, that might be pushing it. You’re right. I’ll just pop up from time to time when you’re in more populated areas that are less... _emotionally_ charged. It would be too suspicious if I appeared at a campground or something of that nature, too.” 

“It would be suspicious if you showed up again _at all_.” Arms cross over your chest and you query, “What makes you think you’re gonna meet the Oracle, anyway?” 

“Because I’m always with you, of course,” the daemon responds smartly, almost condescending. “But I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow me to wear this face sometimes. It feels nice to walk on two legs and to be able to speak and be heard. It feels... I can’t describe it. To have a face again...” 

“Okay,” you easily relent, if only to cut this conversation short so you can leave. Your consent is also motivated a bit by pity, though you’ll never admit to that. “But don’t make a habit of it.” 

“Only if necessary,” the daemon assents. “Orion Spiros had a slight affinity for fire spells that I can utilize to your benefit. But a formal request to take this form isn’t the only thing I’d hoped to bend your ear over. The time draws near and we must speak about the Oracle.” 

“ _Wait. What?_ ”

Puzzled, you ask, “What time draws near?” 

“I just wanted to say... It was good of you to extend your protection to the Oracle," the daemon expertly dodges, because now you’re distracted by an even more puzzling statement. 

"Why bring that up so suddenly?” You ask uneasily. 

A pointed look is shot your way. "We’re going to Altissia. We’ll be seeing her soon, so it seemed a right enough time to tell you that I know about the pact you made with the Oracle. While Lysandra failed in her duty, blinded by pride and patriotism, I’m positive you’ll do what it takes to fulfill your family’s duty to _both_ family lines. The Mage protects the King above all else but what is a Mage if they don’t uphold contracts?" 

“Right,” you drawl, made uncomfortable by the daemon’s extensive knowledge of the goings on of your life, past and present. “I have to go now. Sorry that I have to leave you behind.” 

“Of course. Drive safe.” The daemon shoots you a reassuring smile and pats your shoulder, so familiar like an old relative you haven’t seen in an age. “I’ll be there before you know it.” 

Something about that rhetorical question strikes you as odd. So strange for the daemon to talk about that old, secretive pact; that promise between two families. Not borne out of lust, as rumored by those who discovered the secret, but out of a whisper in an ancestor's ear from a lipless mouth eons ago. The daemon sees the power of that family line, bestowed by Bahamut, and seeks to amplify it and _use_ it. 

“You ready to go?” You ask Prompto and he heads your way, following by your side. The two of you hastily make your way out of the maze of alleyways to get across the street. The sound of soft footsteps makes you lengthen your stride and mindlessly ask the blond, “Excited to set sail?” 

Prompto shoots you a genuine smile, just as relieved as you are to get away from Orion, though for different reasons. “Yeah!” 

As you start up the moped and head down the road, the daemon’s words echo in your mind. You watch the daemon in your side mirror as it exits the alley. It keeps one hand up in a motionless wave, a serene smile on those lips and those dark eyes unblinking. 

All this time, you’ve been looking forward to getting to Altissia. There were many bumps in the road, but it’s finally happening. And yet... Eyes glance in the side mirror once more. The smile is gone from the daemon’s face. That hand drops back down to its side and it turns away to reenter the dingy little alley.

* * *

**Ignis**

As you climb the steps up to the second floor of the hotel, leaving the daemon to sit patiently in the lobby, you wonder just how many layers of deception you can sink into. Then you sigh at how dramatic that thought is. Are you a mage or an actor? Actually... that’s not a very good question because with the amount of fibbing you’ve been doing, you’re definitely akin to someone playing a role. 

“ _And it’s all for a good purpose_ ,” you tell yourself. 

Because, honestly, what good would it do to reveal that the conventionally attractive young man struggling to sip coffee in the lobby is actually an ancient daemon wearing the skin of a man the creature killed over a decade ago? Killed in order to protect _you_? It’d assuage your guilt and that’s all. That’s the only good thing that would likely come of it. 

And though you hate to be one of those people who weighs the morality of their actions based on outcomes, it’s become more and more of a necessity. Funny, that. Truth is too convenient but only for you and lies are necessary in order to not burden the others who are already far too burdened to begin with. In keeping your lips sealed, at least for now, you alleviate a burden they’re unaware of. 

“A good rationale,” you murmur bitterly under your breath, hand shoved in the pocket of your pants to fish out your hotel room key. It’s quiet on the other side of the door, you note. Eyebrow pops up of its own accord. Typically, at this hour, Noct has already been roused and he and Prom tend to be a bit rowdy when together. 

Breath stilling in your chest despite the fact that detection is 100% not even a _possibility_ at this moment, you lean forward and press your ear to the door in the hopes of hearing what’s going on. You can’t hear a thing save for maybe utensils hitting a plate and the occasional rumble of Gladiolus’ deep voice.

You step away from the door and sigh. 

On the other side, everyone is having breakfast in the hotel room before setting off for Cape Caem. Despite it just being the four of them, they speak in hushed tones. Your name is a whisper gently falling from downturned lips, green eyes narrow as Prompto talks about what he saw in the alleyway near the hotel. Glasses that haven’t even slipped down the bridge of a nose are pushed up regardless, a nervous gesture. 

“You say this man was dressed like a Spire mage?” Asks Ignis, cup of coffee in hand but otherwise untouched. “He wore a sweater like (y/n)’s and looked to be about... twenty-five?” 

“Yeah. A little older than any of us but not by much. And he said his name was Orion,” Prompto adds, to which Ignis merely nods. 

This is strange news. When Iggy awoke early in the morning, he hadn’t been surprised by your absence; it was a typical thing, your usual quirky behavior. He’d stared for a moment at the empty side of the bed you’d shared with him before getting up and soundlessly starting breakfast. Everything about the morning, up until Prompto nearly busted down the door in his haste to divulge this information after going out to stretch his legs, was _normal_. 

Ignis assumed you’d stealthily left bed at around three since you went to bed rather early at about eight. Emerald eyes had glanced at his phone sitting atop the counter while he prepared breakfast with you in mind. Not once did the screen light up with a picture of your impishly smiling face. Not once did he hear that whimsical text tone he’d assigned specifically for you. But he didn’t worry. Didn’t allow himself to worry. You’re an adult, after all. You’re an Iovita, as you so often tout. 

And now, all of that time going through the motions has Iggy doling out some highly internalized self-flagellation. Because _nothing_ about this morning had been normal. He exchanges a stern look with Gladiolus. They’re on the same wavelength, it would seem. Because from everything you told them, you didn’t have _any_ friends in the Spire. However, this wouldn’t be the first time they caught you in a lie with regard to your interpersonal relationships within that ancient college. 

But the setting seems a little odd _as does_ the timing. They’re all about to head out to Altissia... While unlikely, there’s always been an underlying fear of spies. There’s always been the need for discretion, which made your little Vine debut so vexing for everyone. Ignis finds himself regretting each tongue-lashing he ever gave you, no matter how well-intentioned. Then he finds himself regretting not giving you even _more_ since his scoldings never seemed to stick. 

‘Cause you never shook that damn habit of yours: Jetting off _alone_. 

Before your face was made known to the entire world, Ignis and Gladiolus _tolerated_ your little trips out into the wilderness to collect plants and junk. Yes, there were reprimands if you stayed out too late or didn’t check in, but it was still allowed. And now there’s a very real possibility that you’ve gone and got yourself abducted or in some sort of confrontation. Especially when they think about the chancellor’s strange interest in you. 

It’s a fear that’s conveyed through a single look. 

Just as the older men stand, the door to the hotel room opens and you waltz right in, wearing all of your usual airs. Keen green eyes immediately zero-in on the tear and the blood on your sweater. There’s an inquiry followed by the heat of three other gazes. You’re relieved to be out of the musty old alley and in the comfort of one of the hotel’s cozy rooms, but the severity in everyone’s gaze makes you want to walk right back out. 

Everyone is looking at you like you were just murdered in front of them and not like you just have a tiny bit of blood on you... and you no longer even _have_ a wound! Guilt crashes over Prompto. He thinks this “Orion” guy did this to you. He isn’t the only one consumed by guilt. Ignis is watching you intensely, lips pursed as he slowly sits back down. Under that gaze, you feel like a kid again. Is Ignis pissed? You bet he is. 

The nerve of you to walk in like nothing is wrong when you look like _that_... 

Some days, the bespectacled brunet wonders if you purposefully do things that make him want to rip his hair out. Be it keeping poison near your food or not adequately tightening the laces on your boots, you seem to be in the habit of making him worry. Ignis Scientia is a worrier by nature but by gods you exacerbate that nature. What makes things even worse is that, on top of his cherished friendship with you, now he’s _in love_ with you. So, curse your carelessness right to hell and back. 

This tension isn’t lost on you. Though you may be oblivious at times, that ability of yours to read body language and expressions is something you pride yourself over. Too bad you can’t turn it off, ‘cause the way Ignis is staring at you makes you want to vaporize. Maybe you should look into a spell for that for just such occasions as this one? Oh, but it might be tricky to reverse something like that if you’re incorporeal... 

The intensity of Iggy’s scowl necessitates a semi-blurted, “I was out late last night or early this morning- depending on how you want to look at it- hunting for mushrooms when I fell.” Cheeks heat up when that scowl only intensifies. “I didn’t have any potions, but luckily for me, I ran into an old acquaintance from the Spire and he had a potion on hand.” Eyes turn to Prom. “Which is what _you_ walked in on. I was unaware that Orion, a guy I graduated with, was here in Lestallum.” 

“How fortuitous,” drawls Iggy, oozing suspicion. Fingertips drum against his knee. His hand is hidden under the table but you _know_ he’s doing it. 

“ _Ramuh, spare me._ ” 

“Yes,” you confirm quickly, struggling to maintain eye contact with the strategist so as not to reveal your guilt, “quite. I’m just stopping by to gather my things. I’m going to catch up with Orion and I’ll meet you all in Cape Caem.” 

Everyone knows better than to argue with you when you wear the face that you’ve chosen to don right now. It’s unblinking eyes set in an otherwise expressionless mask; cold, calculating, and eerily stoic. Once, Noct said you could interrogate people with that expression alone, no need for torture or any other sort of scare tactics... _just_ that face. 

But Ignis isn’t just anyone. He’s your equal in every sense of the word and has never been one to let you simply do as you please... your random trips notwithstanding. So it comes as a surprise to absolutely no one when he gestures toward the table and says primly, “Have some breakfast first, (y/n), and then we’ll accompany Orion around the city.” The way he invites himself onto this little trip of yours is too damn smooth. 

Everyone resumes eating when you look to them for help, when you look to them to call off Ignis and insist that his usually rigorous schedule must be upheld so that everyone can make it to Cape Caem in a timely manner. But no one will be rendering aid today. When the parents are bickering- I mean when the two most strong-willed caretakers of the group have a feud, the others tend to stay out of it lest they wind up on the receiving end of disappointed stares that ask, “Why did you side against _me_?” 

If anyone’s going to be doing any convincing, it’s you. 

Which you have absolutely no time for, considering you have a mischievous daemon in human skin waiting for you in the lobby downstairs. I mean, it’s not like you expect the daemon is going to sack the city or anything so dramatic. But there _is_ a very real threat of it doing... _something_. Hey, if it can go out of its way to transform into coeurls, snakes, and behemoths just to make Prompto scream, you don’t know what it’ll do now that it can be heard and understood by the average person. 

Much to Ignis’ chagrin, you scarf down your breakfast (you’re going to get an upset stomach for that later, so you know), hastily clean up after yourself, and start to head for the door. All it takes is the delicate clearing of a throat to make you falter a moment before slinging your packed bag over your shoulder and turning to shoot everyone a strained smile. “Thanks for breakfast, but I really shouldn’t keep him waiting. It’s a bit rude.” 

That head of light brown hair nods and Ignis begins cleaning up his place setting. “You’re absolutely right, (y/n). We mustn’t allow Orion to wait on us for much longer.” 

Eyes slowly close and you choke back a tortured sigh that struggles to escape from your very soul. As entitled as it sounds, typically everyone allows you to do your own thing. There’s a certain amount of “mysticism” that shrouds you and protects you from the usual line of inquiry that you would be subjected to if you were anyone other than (y/n) Iovita. A luxury borne from your family name and your credentials as a Spire mage. 

It’s also the byproduct of your death and the many near-misses that followed in the wake of such a traumatic event. Honestly? It’s a little humorous. The fact that you died once for Noct has made your loyalty an unquestionable thing even in the face of all of your lies. Because you laid your life down for him without a second thought. No traitor, not even one committed to a ruse, would do such a thing. Especially considering Gladio almost wasn’t able to bring you back... 

However, in this moment, your “saintly” status means absolutely _nothing_ to Ignis Scientia. Not when his eyes keep going to that tear in the sleeve of your sweater and the semi-dried, flaky blood that decorates it. The bespectacled brunet makes quick work of his dishes, gaze occasionally darting over to you as if to make sure you aren’t going to make a mad dash for the door. After a long moment in which everyone awkwardly continues to eat breakfast and converse with each other, you relent, “Come on, Iggs.” 

Emerald eyes glance toward you to confirm that he heard. “We’ll be back momentarily,” Iggy informs the others, taking charge of the day’s schedule once more. Hands are dusted off on his pants and his blazer is thrown on. The older man gives you a stern look even as he addresses the other guys, “A jaunt about the city won’t take too long.” 

That expression? The one that causes his brow to crease and his eyes to narrow almost imperceptibly? The one that makes his lips thin? That’s the expression he often uses to tell you that you can go right to hell if you sass him. Right now he’s being merciful- he’s being extraordinarily _lenient_. Because you’re being suspicious and secretive. After all of the admittedly cheesy and kinda cringey confessions and promises you two made to each other over an under-baked cake, you have the gall to try and pull one over on him? 

“Yeah. See you guys after a while,” you sigh, resigned to your fate and thoroughly feeling the heat of Ignis’ many nonverbal reprimands. Then you turn on your heel and exit the hotel room with Ignis by your side. Right now, you’re internally freaking the hell out. You hadn’t accounted for Ignis’ stubbornness (though you sure as shit should have) when you considered how you were going to deal with the daemon issue. 

To Ignis, the one who can read you perhaps better than most despite your wonderful talent of wearing masks, he could tell from a simple glance that you were high-strung. From the moment you walked through the doorway, he knew you were hiding something. Hell, he probably detected it from the way you turned the damn doorknob, he knows you so well. A blessing and a curse. A curse that has you stopping in the middle of the hallway to guiltily tug on the sleeve of Ignis’ blazer, getting him to halt and look back at you, one eyebrow quirked. 

“Is there something wrong, (y/n)?” Those soft intonations are trying to coax the truth out of you.

It almost works, because you’re suddenly saying, “I just feel like I need to warn you about Orion.” 

“What do you mean?”

“ _He’s actually a daemon._ ” 

“He’s odd,” is the vague answer you give instead. But it’s not a lie. The daemon _is_ odd. Gods, you almost roll your eyes at _yourself_. Iggy’s other eyebrow finally rises and you sigh, “You’ll see. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. There was a reason I wanted to prevent any of you from meeting him.” 

“You’re being very cryptic this morning, Iovita, and you haven’t even had your coffee.” 

“Oh, dammit! You’re right.” 

“Well, if you hadn’t been in such a rush...” Iggy gently scolds, side-eyeing you as the two of you continue down the hall and toward the staircase leading to the lobby. 

The warm, earthy smell of coffee wafts up from the lobby alongside a lilting, pleasant voice interspersed with another individual’s more refined commentary. The former is definitely the daemon- you’re so damn sure because even though the voice is “new,” that crafty way of speaking is familiar. Which means the second voice belongs to the unfortunate man working at the lobby’s desk. Six, you knew the creature was giddy about having a voice, but _damn_. 

“ _Please don’t tell me I’m going to have to babysit_ ,” you internally groan. This day can’t get any worse and it’s barely 7:15 in the morning. 

As the two of you stop at the top of the stairs and look down, you spot a lithe young man with his elbows planted on the lobby counter, a cup of coffee grasped with only his finely tapered fingertips, and the hotel worker smiling pleasantly at him, there’s just _something_ that strikes Ignis as familiar about someone he’s positive he’s never met before. It’s in that haughty posture, even when stooped. It’s in that teasing but arrogant voice... 

Green eyes find their way to you. 

A formidable headache begins to form in your frontal lobe; a low-grade throb that becomes an ice- pick in the middle of your forehead. It’s a strong mix of caffeine withdrawal and stress. You take a steadying breath before continuing down the stairs and gliding up to the daemon who rights itself with the half-empty cup of coffee in hand. Ignis follows, always by your side. 

You’re having an internalized panic attack. Ah, your _favorite_ kind. The spacious lobby feels crowded and time seems to be slipping out of your fingers as you haphazardly slap together some sort of ruse for Iggy to buy. You and the daemon were _supposed_ to take your moped to Cape Caem and you were going to take the daemon into a cave or something to transform before boarding the boat. 

But now? With unexpected company? Though the others are going to wait around in the city for you and Ignis, this leaves no room for you to tote around the daemon in human skin. It’s not as if you’ll be able to randomly stop at a cave en route to Cape Caem, enter with “Orion,” and come out with a random animal. And like hell would you even be _allowed_ to take Orion in the general direction of Cape Caem in the first place. In this skin, the daemon isn’t your familiar. It’s an interloper. 

The daemon knows this. 

The corners of those brown eyes crinkle with an amused smirk at the sight of Ignis by your side. “Hello. I don’t think we’ve met.” You’re given that unfinished coffee to hold on to and a hand is shot out, intended for the brunet who stands beside you. Emerald eyes flicker down at that stilted attempt at a greeting. The daemon’s lips twitch from an amused smirk to an amiable smile. “Orion. A pleasure.” 

Ignis returns the gesture gallantly and you’re tempted to drink the daemon’s unfinished coffee. 

Now that Iggy is finally in this Orion fellow’s company, he takes a good look at him. He’s roughly the same height as him but Orion is a bit more slight. It’s as if his build was _made_ to look nonthreatening, swathed in a dusky lavender cardigan that actually fits him as opposed to the bulky and impractical style you choose to wear. His face is disarming; large dark eyes, a bow-shaped mouth, and a refined nose. 

Everything about his appearance is warm but, _gods_ , his hand feels like ice through Iggy’s glove. 

“Ignis is going to accompany us around Lestallum,” you stiffly inform the daemon, widening your eyes to convey to it that it needs to be on its best behavior or else the jig is up; that, given its capabilities for audible speech, it had better not take advantage of the situation in a way that inconveniences you or makes Iggy uncomfortable for the sake of a gag, as the daemon is wont to do. Too bad one look at your widened eyes has the daemon poking its tongue into its cheek and winking. 

“ _Son of a bitch..._ ” 

Those somewhat hollow-looking brown eyes shift from you to alight on the suspicious tactician, eyebrows rising and smile growing, much to the brunet’s unease. Hands are placed on narrow hips and the daemon cocks its head cutely. “Oh? On our little trip to haunt every last book purveyor in Lestallum? I thought that might seem boring to others. Are you an ardent scholar of the arcane, Ignis?” 

That’s an awful lot of snark from a stranger. This Orion seems too familiar- like he either has no manners or he forgets them, acting too friendly, too blasé, with someone he’s just met and doesn’t know well enough to be so impertinent with. It’s hardly a Spire quirk, considering you were so stiff and formal when you first met everyone; calling the guys “sir” and especially calling Iggy “Mr. Scientia” and thanking him properly after every meal and for each drive. 

Orion has already made a very poor first impression. 

“Actually,” Iggy starts, gaze critical though he wears a pleasant smile, “I’m _not_ a scholar of the arcane arts, nor do I pretend to be. However, I do have more than a fleeting interest in the subject. (y/n) has helped to grow that interest of mine in the time that we’ve known each other.” 

“Oh, really?” Straight white teeth are on full display. “I’d wager (y/n) has helped you grow more than a few things.” 

“Can you _not_?” You snap, totally aghast. Ignis stiffens beside you, smile wiped from his face. Oh, boy. Is that a tension headache coming on, right on top of your stress headache? Can those two exist at the same time? Aren’t they the same thing? Either way, it skyrockets from a slight tightening in your frontal lobe to a vise about your skull. The daemon’s stolen face pulls into an innocent expression at the sight of your murderous one. 

A charming, boyish smile is flashed at you and your equally pissed boyfriend in the lobby. “I meant nothing _bad_ by it. You have a way of enrapturing people, is all I meant, (y/n).” 

Admittedly, you probably _shouldn’t_ have told the daemon that you had sex with Ignis. But it has a way of getting things out of you. And by “a way,” I mean it can be absolutely relentless in its badgering that you’d tell it your deepest, darkest secrets just to get it to shut up. So when it noticed you wearing a dumb grin after your “alone time” with Iggy and _especially_ after it heard him laugh over the fact that you ruined a cake... it _knew_. But it had to hear you say it yourself. Gods, that laughter... 

There’s a long, painful silence after the daemon makes that catty comment. 

That old cliché about being able to hear a pin drop? Yeah, that applies here as Ignis stares down the mouthy Spire mage. He’s being _kind_ for your sake, since this guy is your acquaintance, after all. Honestly, Iggy’d probably have a fit if he could hear half the things the daemon has said before. One hand comes up over your mouth and you stare into the dark depths of the daemon’s cold, unfinished coffee, filled with existential dread. 

“Let’s get going,” you blurt, nearly crushing the paper cup in your hand before putting it down on the lobby counter. “Ignis and I don’t have much time to waste, Orion.” 

“No problem! That just means we’ll have to cherish every moment today, won’t we?”

“ _Six…_ ”

And that’s that. Except, of course, that’s _not_ that. 

Though you escape that painful moment that will forever be seared in your memory no matter how much you’d like to repress it, you still have Ignis to dance around and the daemon to rein in at every turn. Books are stared at and purchased without much thought and pleasantries are spouted all in an effort to keep your sanity. You’ve known that the daemon has a mischievous streak. You’ve _known that_. Yet you’re thrown for a loop all the same, like you haven’t had the privilege of getting to know the creature for weeks. 

It’s taking advantage of its human body in the worst way possible. To be frank, you have your work cut out for you and by the end of this nightmare of a day, you’ll swear that you’re dead inside. 

It’s really unfortunate. The creature in stolen skin is becoming more and more like its past self. There’s rationality there in that corrupted mind, but it’s still corrupted. That rationality will fade when you breathe your last breath and send the daemon spiraling back into insanity. But in this moment, right now, it’s itself. An unfortunate thing for Ignis Scientia. But it seems a far more unfortunate thing for you in your valiant effort to deflect suspicion. 

Because you spot those brown eyes flashing in the dimness of an old bookstore and you swear you see a flicker of fiery yellow for a split-second. You hope it’s a trick of the light. But then you see Ignis watching the daemon warily and you’re tempted to throw yourself through the store’s window. It wasn’t a trick of the light and Ignis _definitely_ noticed it. And the thing to trigger such a reaction from the daemon was you purposefully bumping the back of your hand against Ignis’ and Iggy letting his linger. 

“ _Is the daemon jealous?_ ” You find yourself wondering several times because that impish nature of its seems to explode now that it has a larger audience. 

Idle chatter has left no room for you to gather your wits in silence, even though you’ve played a minimal part in it. A skilled conversationalist, the creature talks a mile a minute and gently works Ignis for information on his upbringing, education, and the prominent figures in his life. But it’s not as though the brunet is at all unwilling in this exchange. Ignis goes toe to toe with the daemon elegantly. 

Barbs are dodged with striking finesse and the somewhat confrontational tone that the daemon seems to default to is dispersed with charming commentary. Flirtation is politely talked around and back-handed compliments are met with _genuine_ ones on the bespectacled brunet’s part. There’s no doubt left in your mind that Iggy is the real MVP. Well, up until the daemon rips the rug out from under him with a single question. 

The daemon figures that if your plan to drive out to Cape Caem with it and have it transform in some dark, dirty old cave can’t come to fruition, it might as well have some fun while it’s in this skin. At a food stall, shopping spree blissfully over, the three of you sit and eat kabobs. A bit of a struggle ensues over who will sit next to you at the dingy plastic table with two chairs on one side and one chair on the other, until you take one of the chairs and put it on a side all its own. It’s the most childish showdown you’ve ever had the misfortune of being part of. 

Lestallum’s heat is beginning to make wearing your sweater highly uncomfortable. Sweat beads and drips down your brow only to be wiped away by the sleeve of your sweater. “Orion,” on the other hand, is cool as a cucumber. He doesn’t sweat. In fact, sometimes he even forgets to blink. This makes it all the more necessary for you to distract Iggy with some witty banter about the city and how it inspires his creativity. 

Such a lighthearted exchange is observed keenly. Thus far, you’ve evaded being a serious topic of discussion between the two but your luck runs out just as your soda does. Good thing, too, because you almost choke when the daemon suddenly asks, “Ignis, are you (y/n)’s lover?” Iggy’s then given one of the most condescending smiles he’s ever received in his entire life. It’s a crooked type of smile with just a hint of white teeth, warm brown eyes hooded and peering at him from beneath dark lashes. It’s _your_ smile. 

A paper napkin dabs delicately at the seemingly unfazed’s strategist’s lips, even as the back of his neck heats up. Green eyes slowly turn between where you bite down on your straw to the other Spire mage. “Why, what’s brought this on, Orion?” 

Brown eyes flash at that evasive response. Upper lip twitches imperceptibly and the daemon leans back into its chair. Behind it, people pass by on the street, wearing far more seasonable attire of shorts and t-shirts. “It’s just that (y/n) seems to be pretty fond of you. I don’t know if you’re aware, but they aren’t a very open or trusting person.” 

“I’d argue (y/n) is quite open and trusting.” 

The daemon clucks its tongue and wags its mostly untouched kabob at the green-eyed man. “See? That’s why I ask. Because that certainly wasn’t their reputation back at the Spire.” 

“Orion,” you warn, voice low. 

Shoulders shrug lazily. “What? I’m not saying anything _bad_. Ignis should know how much he means to you and it wouldn’t hurt for him to say if you mean just as much to him.” That lackadaisical tone develops a sharp edge at the end of that sentence. “See, Ignis, because back in the Spire, (y/n) was just _too cool_ for anyone- _way_ out of everyone’s league. People thought (y/n) was cold. I was the head of their fan club, so I should know.” 

“I didn’t have a fan club!” You scoff, drinking watered down soda from the very bottom of your cup. The loud sucking noise sadly isn’t enough to drown out the daemon’s chatter. 

“Oh, yes you did.” Those chocolate brown eyes widen marginally and you begin to think that the daemon is actually telling the truth. About the fan club not about being the captain or whatever. “We were all just too intimidated by you to say anything.” 

Ignis’ eyes are unblinking. “You’re quite the flatterer, Orion. One might think you fancy (y/n) with the way you speak of them.” 

The daemon throws its head back and laughs. That laughter rings throughout the square and you sink into your seat. The way the daemon sobers up so quickly after such a hearty laugh is unsettling. Almost as unsettling as how those dark eyes refuse to blink. “Truthfully? I love them. I would do _anything_ for (y/n).” That blunt response makes a muscle in Iggy’s jaw twitch. 

“Six, Orion,” you groan, chewing nervously on your straw. 

“What? I was intimidated into silence in college. I figure I might as well tell you of my undying love of you _now_ ,” the daemon teases you, though the intention is lost on Ignis Scientia who’s unaware of what “Orion” really is. To the brunet, all he sees is an impertinent and forward young man. He doesn’t see the devoted daemon that wears the mask. The daemon that doesn’t love you romantically, but does love you. The daemon that has spilled blood for you and will do so again at any moment. 

“You keep insisting that you were intimidated by (y/n), yet you’re saying quite a lot in their company now,” comments Ignis. Wow. That... was pretty catty. But Iggy has always been the master of the subtle drag. Hell, he’s dragged your ass a few times without you realizing it until all was said and done. 

“They just seem so different outside of the Spire. Happier.” Orion looks at him with a genuinely kind smile. “I guess it’s because of you. Thank you for taking such great care of (y/n).” 

Ignis doesn’t respond. He just looks at the brunet with darkened green eyes. Though he can tell that the intention is to flatter him, the sentiment makes his hackles rise. “Thank you for taking care of (y/n)?” Orion almost says it as if Iggy has been a placeholder until Orion managed to elbow his way back into your life. Ignis is too busy agonizing over Orion’s apparent obsession with you that he completely misses the daemon’s obvious displeasure with his non-answer of the “lover” question. But _you_ don’t. 

And you know this “transgression” won’t be forgotten or forgiven if it goes unaddressed. The daemon is surprisingly petty that way, you’ve found. To the creature, it can’t exactly read human intention all that well if it isn’t privy to the inner machinations of said human’s mind. Despite having watched over _you_ for a long, long time, _Ignis_ is still relatively unknown to the daemon. So, it struggles to see that Ignis’ reluctance to answer such a question is borne out of respect for your privacy, not out of a desire to lead you on. 

Straw is removed from between your clenched teeth in order for you to ask, “May I answer your question, Orion? About Ignis being my lover?” You can practically feel Iggy’s gaze searing into your flesh the moment the question leaves your lips, but you ignore it. 

The daemon blinks. “Of course.”

“The status of my relationship with Ignis is none of your business.”

Just that simple sentence alone tells the demon all it needs to know. But to the daemon, it was an honest question! It doesn’t like for things to be unsettled, especially not where you’re concerned. Especially not where it’s possible for you to wind up hurt. But after it howled with laughter over the fact that you’d got so distracted during your amorous activities with Ignis that you forgot you were baking a cake, you wouldn’t speak anymore on the subject. It was unaware that you’d already had a lengthy discussion with the strategist. 

“Oh. So, a private couple, hm?” A wide grin cracks that pleasant face in two. “I can respect that.” 

“Can you?” You deadpan. 

“Yes,” the daemon laughs. “As long as this young man doesn’t hurt you, I can keep to myself and stop prying.” It blatantly ignores how Iggy purses his lips at it for making such a bold statement. 

“Really? That seems to go against your very nature,” you drawl. 

And it does. Later, you’re going to find yourself “convinced” yet again to divulge more information than you’d like for the sake of some peace and quiet. Because while the daemon was able to read enough in your answer to know that you’d discussed your relationship with Ignis, it’d like to know what was said. Such an ardent believer in the sanctity of verbal contracts. Promises must never be broken. Never. 

Ignis glances at his phone, immensely relieved when it goes off. “I hate to interrupt, but the others are waiting on us. It’s time to leave, (y/n).” 

The world lifts off of your shoulders. “It’s been fun catching up.” 

“You bet. I really enjoyed meeting your boyfriend.” 

“Right,” you sigh at the creature’s pushiness. Gods, what’s this thing’s angle? Is it _trying_ to drive you mad? Irritation is covered up with a prim smile and a polite, “But do you mind if we have a private word before I head out?” 

There’s that toothy grin again. “Of course!” 

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot. We won’t be long, Iggs,” you reassure Iggy. When you see his troubled expression, you pat his arm. It would seem a far less romantic gesture for a couple, such a simple thing. However, it’s much appreciated by Ignis Scientia. Subtle gestures with nuanced undertones are the lifeblood of your relationship. So Iggy makes no further objections, vocal or otherwise, as you wander down an alley with the daemon on your heels. 

A corner is turned and you round on the daemon. “What in the everloving _hell_ was all of that?” You hiss. 

The daemon beams. “I think he likes me.”

“He probably thinks you’re in love with me. Could you _be_ anymore creepy or obnoxious?” 

“But does he think I’m a daemon? No. I’d say I did a good job.” The daemon adjusts its sweater, looking proud of itself. In this dingy alley full of pipes and garbage bins, the sharply dressed daemon looks so out of place and so do you. You’re a couple of snooty looking Spire mages hanging out in a dirty alley. A bright smile makes the daemon look even more out of place. “Do you think you can convince the others to let me come along? Call it vanity, but I’d quite like to meet the Oracle with an attractive face.” 

A derisive snort leaves you. “Absolutely _not_.” 

That head of neatly combed brown hair bobs. “Ah, that might be pushing it. You’re right. I’ll just pop in from time to time when you’re in more populated areas that are less... _emotionally_ charged. It would be too suspicious if I appeared at a campground or something of that nature, too.” 

“It would be suspicious if you showed up again at all.” Arms cross over your chest and you query, “What makes you think you’re gonna meet the Oracle, anyway?” 

“Because I’m always with you, of course,” the daemon responds smartly, almost condescending. “But I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow me to wear this face sometimes. It feels nice to walk on two legs and to be able to speak and be heard. It feels... I can’t describe it. To have a face again...” 

“Okay,” you easily relent, if only to cut this conversation short so you can leave. Your consent is also motivated a bit by pity, though you’ll never admit to that. “But don’t make a habit of it.” 

“Only if necessary,” the daemon assents. “Orion Spiros had a slight affinity for fire spells that I can utilize to your benefit. But a formal request to take this form isn’t the only thing I’d hoped to bend your ear over. The time draws near and we must speak about the Oracle.” 

“ _Wait. What?_ ”

Puzzled, you ask, “What time draws near?” 

“I just wanted to say... It was good of you to extend your protection to the Oracle," the daemon expertly dodges, because now you’re distracted by an even more puzzling statement. 

"Why bring that up so suddenly?” You ask uneasily. 

A pointed look is shot your way. "We’re going to Altissia. We’ll be seeing her soon, so it seemed a right enough time to tell you that I know about the pact you made to the Oracle. While Lysandra failed in her duty, blinded by pride and patriotism, I’m positive you’ll do what it takes to fulfill your family’s duty to _both_ family lines. The Mage protects the King above all else but what is a Mage if they don’t uphold contracts?" 

“Right,” you drawl, made uncomfortable by the daemon’s extensive knowledge of the goings on of your life, past and present. “I have to go now. Sorry that I have to leave you behind.” 

“Of course. It couldn’t be helped. Drive safe.” The daemon shoots you a reassuring smile and pats your shoulder, so familiar like an old relative you haven’t seen in an age. “I’ll be there before you know it.” 

Something about that rhetorical question strikes you as odd, though. So strange for the daemon to talk about that old, secretive pact; that promise between two families. Not borne out of lust, as rumored by those who discovered the secret, but out of a whisper in an ancestor's ear from a lipless mouth eons ago. The daemon sees the power of that family line, bestowed by Bahamut, and seeks to amplify it and _use_ it. 

“Are you ready?” Ignis queries, leaning against the Regalia as you approach the scooter that’s parked neatly next to the car. You hadn’t even realized that you’d wandered out of the alley and into the parking lot. Gods, you crossed an entire street without even being cognizant of it. The way those verdant eyes rake over you for any sign of a single hair out of place doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated. 

“Yes, _sir_ ,” you respond, lighthearted and joking, a vain attempt to shake off your troubles. Those pale cheeks flush slightly and the brunet shoots you a disapproving look that tells you he’s not _mad_ about that response. This only encourages your teasing grin. 

As you start up the moped and head down the road, the daemon’s words echo in your mind. You watch the daemon in your side mirror as it exits the alley that spills out into the street. It keeps one hand up in a motionless wave, a serene smile on those lips and those dark eyes unblinking. 

All this time, you’ve been looking forward to getting to Altissia. There were many bumps in the road, but it’s finally happening. And yet... Eyes glance in the side mirror once more. The smile is gone from the daemon’s face. That hand drops back down to its side and it turns away and reenters the dark, lonely alley.

* * *

**Gladiolus**

As you climb the steps up to the second floor of the hotel, leaving the daemon to sit patiently in the lobby, you wonder just how many layers of deception you can sink into. Then you sigh at how dramatic that thought is. Are you a mage or an actor? Actually... that’s not a very good question because with the amount of fibbing you’ve been doing, you’re definitely akin to someone playing a role. 

“ _And it’s all for a good purpose_ ,” you tell yourself. 

Because, honestly, what good would it do to reveal that the conventionally attractive young man struggling to sip coffee in the lobby is actually an ancient daemon wearing the skin of a man the creature killed over a decade ago? Killed in order to protect _you_? It’d assuage your guilt and that’s all. That’s the only good thing that would likely come of it. 

And though you hate to be one of those people who weighs the morality of their actions based on outcomes, it’s become more and more of a necessity. Funny, that. Truth is too convenient but only for you and lies are necessary in order to not burden the others who are already far too burdened to begin with. In keeping your lips sealed, at least for now, you alleviate a burden they’re unaware of. 

“A good rationale,” you murmur bitterly under your breath, hand shoved in the pocket of your pants to fish out your hotel room key. It’s quiet on the other side of the door, you note. Eyebrow pops up of its own accord. Typically, at this hour, Noct has already been roused and he and Prom tend to be a bit rowdy when together. 

Breath stilling in your chest despite the fact that detection is 100% not even a _possibility_ at this moment, you lean forward and press your ear to the door in the hopes of hearing what’s going on. You can’t hear a thing save for maybe utensils hitting a plate and the occasional rumble of Gladiolus’ deep voice. 

You step away from the door and sigh.

On the other side, everyone is having breakfast in the hotel room before setting off for Cape Caem. Despite it just being the four of them, they speak in hushed tones. Your name is a whisper gently falling from downturned lips, amber eyes narrow as Prompto talks about what he saw in the alleyway near the hotel. There’s a disdainful huff through an aquiline nose and Gladiolus crosses his arms. 

“You say this man was dressed like a Spire mage?” Asks Ignis, cup of coffee in hand but otherwise untouched. “He wore a sweater like (y/n)’s and looked to be about... twenty-five?” 

“Yeah. A little older than any of us but not by much. And he said his name was Orion,” Prompto adds. 

And just like that, Gladiolus is off of his seat and headed for the door. He’s been itching to do so since Prompto practically busted down the door to inform everyone of this latest development, but a glance from Iggy kept him from being too impulsive. Descriptors are what do him in. A _Spire mage_? _Really_? Though it’s hardly breaking news when Spire students come to Lestallum considering the college’s proximity to the city, the timing is odd. 

You’re all about to head out to _Altissia_ , for crying out loud. While unlikely, there’s always been an underlying fear of spies. There’s always been the need for discretion, which made your little Vine debut so vexing for everyone ( _even if_ you looked really cute and dorky throwing up that lame peace sign). Gladiolus knew he should’ve nipped that risky habit of yours in the bud. He _knew it_. That damn obnoxious habit of yours: Jetting off _alone_. 

Before your face was made known to the entire world, Ignis and Gladiolus _tolerated_ your little trips out into the wilderness to collect plants and junk. Gladio tried to stealthily get you to break the habit with disapproving stares as you’d return but to no avail. And now there’s a very real possibility that you’ve gone and got yourself abducted or in some sort of altercation. Especially when the men think about the chancellor’s strange interest in you. 

It’s what motivates the Shield to hasten for the door. 

Your keen dog ears hear movement just beyond the door and you throw it open before your snooping can be found out. Gladio comes to an abrupt halt. At the sight of his favorite mage he’s filled with relief but then comes fear on relief’s heels. Amber eyes sear into the tear in the sleeve of your dusky lavender cardigan and you damn yourself for not remembering the rip and the dotting of blood on your clothes sooner. Should’ve taken the thing off... 

The Shield turns his head of shaggy dark hair to glance over his shoulder and calls, “They’re all right. We’re just gonna have a quick talk.” 

“ _Oh, no..._ ” 

And then the door closes soundlessly behind the statuesque man. In the empty hall, the two of you stare each other down. Your resolve is made of sturdy stuff; stoic silence is your forte. Then again, that formidable resolve of yours has the infuriating tendency to become putty in Gladiolus’ hands. All it takes is the Shield stepping closer to you, hands coming up to gently remove your sleeve from your arm, checking for damage. When the brunet finds none, amber eyes soften and gaze upon your face. 

“What happened?” His voice is a low rumble, a heady combination with the slow circles he begins to rub into your shoulder with his thumb. Words and lies are suddenly foreign to you in the face of Gladio’s endearing nature. Heavy dark eyebrows knit together when you don’t immediately respond. “I’m givin’ you a chance to tell me the truth, (y/n).” 

How your heart wrenches at Gladdy’s frown necessitates a semi-blurted, “I was out looking for mushrooms when I fell.” Cheeks heat up when that frown intensifies. _Oh_ , the lectures about your boot laces... “I didn’t have any potions, but luckily for me, I ran into an old acquaintance from the Spire and he had a potion on hand. Which is what Prom walked in on, if he hasn’t told you already. I was unaware that Orion was here in Lestallum.” 

Now his hand is removed from your person. What a relief! Now you can think clearly! Except his hand is removed in order for him to cross his arms over his chest in obvious disapproval. “Mmhm. Sounds awful convenient, him just happenin’ to be there when you needed him.” 

“ _Ramuh, spare me._ ” 

“What are you implying?” You ask, feeling hot under the collar but certainly not in a good way. Gods, being so on edge you start to notice the strangest things. Like how this hallway stinks of cleaner and how Gladio smells like hot oil from whatever delicious breakfast Iggy cooked up that you’ll unfortunately be missing out on. The lingering odors are exacerbated by the Lestallum heat that travels up from the open lobby. Stomach growls. You both ignore it. 

“How well do you know this guy?” Gladio questions, not done with this interrogation by a long-shot. 

Oh... wait. He bought your lie about knowing Orion from the Spire? Well, to be fair, that’s not a _total_ lie. It’s just that the Orion you knew in the Spire and the “Orion” you’re dealing with now are very different people, to say the least. Opportunity is an open door and all that. You jump to pad your lie with believable falsehoods; things that are easily accepted because they’re the perfect balance of vague and detailed to seem genuine. 

“ _Is it bad that I have lying down to almost an exact science?_ ” 

Probably, yeah. 

Brow creases and you purse your lips, looking to be lost in thought. “Admittedly, I don’t know him all that well. We had a few classes together and he was one of the rare students that didn’t find my presence _completely_ intolerable. If I was short on supplies, he would always lend me some of his in class. Other than that...” you pretend to ponder this subject further, “I can’t give a great character reference on the guy or anything.” 

“Hm. That’s not much to go on.” 

“Yeah, well... I was just stopping by the room to gather my things.” Butterscotch eyes narrow and you continue, unfazed, “I’m going to catch up with Orion and I’ll meet you all in Cape Caem. It’s the _least_ I can do to thank him, since he’s new to the city and all.” 

Everyone knows better than to argue with you when you wear the face that you’ve chosen to don right now. It’s unblinking eyes set in an otherwise expressionless mask; cold, calculating, and eerily stoic. Once, Noct said you could interrogate people with that expression alone, no need for torture or any other sort of scare tactics... _just_ that face. 

But you can’t play Gladio. Though he may not be your equal when it comes to head games (in fact, he has no patience when it comes to people being misleading, seeing as he’s a blunt man), he has a decent nose for deception. So it really shouldn’t come as a surprise to you when he drawls, “Yeah. Okay, Magey. We’ll show your pal around the city.” The way he invites himself onto this little trip of yours is too damn smooth. 

It isn’t _you_ that he’s wary of, however. He’d never second-guess your loyalty, though you give him many reasons to; that illusive quality is something that he’s grown to accept as part of your nature, like a defense-mechanism given the sorts of things you’ve alluded to when you’d speak about the Spire. No. He’s on red-alert because of this new factor in the equation. Gladiolus Amicitia has a burning need to size this guy up. 

“But the others-” You start to protest. 

A squeak and the hotel door is pushed open wide enough for Gladiolus to peek his head in and call, “(y/n) and I are gonna show their Spire friend around Lestallum. We’ll be back in about a couple of hours. Shouldn’t take long.” 

There’s a chorus of acknowledgement before the door is shut once more. The phrase of the day shall be: Oh, no. 

You have absolutely no time to argue with Gladio, considering you have a mischievous daemon in human skin waiting for you in the lobby downstairs. I mean, it’s not like you expect the daemon is gonna sack the city or anything so dramatic. But there _is_ a very real threat of it doing... _something_. Hey, if it can go out of its way to transform into coeurls, snakes, and behemoths just to make Prompto scream, you don’t know _what_ it’ll do now that it can be heard and understood by the average person. 

Eyes slowly close and you choke back a tortured sigh that struggles to escape from your very soul. As entitled as it sounds, typically everyone allows you to do your own thing. There’s a certain amount of “mysticism” that shrouds you and protects you from the usual line of inquiry that you would be subjected to if you were anyone other than (y/n) Iovita. A luxury borne from your family name and your credentials as a Spire mage. 

It’s also the byproduct of your death and the many near-misses that followed in the wake of such a traumatic event. Honestly? It’s a little humorous. The fact that you died once for Noct has made your loyalty an unquestionable thing even in the face of all of your lies. Because you laid your life down for him without a second thought. No traitor, not even one committed to a ruse, would do such a thing. Especially considering Gladio almost wasn’t able to bring you back... 

However, in this moment, your “saintly” status means absolutely _nothing_ to Gladiolus Amicitia, Captain of the Mage Protection Squad. 

It means nothing when you just returned from one of your trips with blood on you and Prom saw you with some stranger in an alley. ‘Cause Gladdy can’t be too sure that this “Orion” guy wasn’t the one to hurt you in the first place. For all he knows, you ran into an old Spire _bully_ and you’re... out looking for revenge? Hell, maybe you aren’t “meeting” with Orion but instead you’re going to bury a body? Aw, shit... 

Well, Gladio figures today he’s gonna mark one thing off of his bucket-list that was never even there before. 

“Let’s get going,” you sigh, resigned to your fate and thoroughly feeling the heat of Gladio’s unyielding stare. Then you turn on your heel and head down the narrow corridor with the Shield by your side. Right now, you’re internally freaking the hell out. You hadn’t accounted for Gladiolus’ stubbornness (though you sure as shit should have) when you considered how you were going to deal with the daemon issue. 

The warm, earthy smell of coffee wafts up from the lobby alongside a lilting, pleasant voice interspersed with another individual’s more refined commentary. The former is definitely the daemon- you’re so damn sure because even though the voice is “new,” that crafty way of speaking is familiar. Which means the second voice belongs to the unfortunate man working at the lobby’s desk. Six, you knew the creature was giddy about having a voice, but _damn_. 

“ _Please don’t tell me I’m going to have to babysit_ ,” you internally groan. This day can’t get any worse and it’s barely 7:15 in the morning. 

As the two of you stop at the top of the stairs and look down, you spot a lithe young man with his elbows planted on the lobby counter, a cup of coffee grasped with only his finely tapered fingertips, and the hotel worker smiling pleasantly at him, there’s just _something_ that strikes Gladio as familiar about someone he’s positive he’s never met before. It’s in that haughty posture, even when stooped. It’s in that teasing but arrogant voice... 

Amber eyes slowly find their way to you, dark eyebrows furrowing together. 

A formidable headache begins to form in your frontal lobe; a low-grade throb that becomes an ice- pick in the middle of your forehead. It’s a strong mix of caffeine withdrawal and stress. You take a steadying breath before continuing down the stairs and gliding up to the daemon who rights itself with the half-empty cup of coffee in hand. Gladiolus follows, of course. He even squares his shoulders a bit, though it’s unnecessary given his already intimidating stature. 

You’re having an internalized panic attack. Ah, your _favorite_ kind. The spacious lobby feels crowded and time seems to be slipping out of your fingers as you haphazardly slap together some sort of ruse for Gladiolus to buy. You and the daemon were _supposed_ to take your moped to Cape Caem and you were going to take the daemon into a cave or something to transform before boarding the boat. 

But now? With unexpected company? 

Though the others are going to wait around in the city for you and Gladdy, this leaves no room for you to tote around the daemon in human skin. It’s not as if you’ll be able to randomly stop at a cave en route to Cape Caem, enter with “Orion,” and come out with a random animal. And like hell would you even be _allowed_ to take Orion in the general direction of Cape Caem in the first place. In this skin, the daemon isn’t your familiar. It’s an interloper. 

The daemon knows this. 

The corners of those brown eyes crinkle with an amused smirk at the sight of the Shield by your side. “Hello. I don’t think we’ve met.” You’re given that unfinished coffee to hold on to like you work here and a hand is shot out, intended for the brunet who stands beside you. Amber eyes flicker down at that stilted attempt at a greeting. The daemon’s lips twitch from an amused smirk to an amiable smile. “Orion. A pleasure.” 

Gladiolus coolly returns the gesture and you’re tempted to drink the daemon’s unfinished coffee. 

Now that Gladio is finally in Orion’s company (and he’s done being grateful that he doesn’t need to get rid of a body), he takes a good look at him. The guy is shorter than him and has a very slight build that hasn’t seen combat or any sort of rigorous exercise. It’s as if his build was _made_ to look nonthreatening, swathed in a dusky lavender cardigan that actually fits him as opposed to the cute bulky style you choose to wear. His face is disarming; large dark eyes, a bow-shaped mouth, and a refined nose. 

Everything about his appearance is warm but, _gods_ , his hand feels like ice in the Shield’s. 

“Gladiolus is going to accompany us around Lestallum,” you stiffly inform the daemon, widening your eyes to convey to it that it needs to be on its best behavior or else the jig is up; that, given its capabilities for audible speech, it had better not take advantage of the situation in a way that inconveniences you or makes Gladio uncomfortable for the sake of a gag, as the daemon is wont to do. Too bad one look at your widened eyes has the daemon poking its tongue into its cheek and winking. 

“ _Son of a bitch..._ ” 

Those somewhat hollow-looking brown eyes shift from you to alight on the suspicious Shield, eyebrows rising and smile growing, much to the brunet’s irritation. Hands are placed on narrow hips and the daemon cocks its head cutely. “Oh? On our little trip to haunt every last book purveyor in Lestallum? I thought that might seem boring to others. Are you an ardent scholar of the arcane, Gladiolus?” 

Okay...? Is this weirdo implying something? Gladio’s no stranger to elitist mages but holy shit. It’s been such a long time since he came into contact with a Spire mage other than you that he forgot how obnoxious they can be. They act like some upper-class, untouchable scumbags. Their hobbies and interests are so expensive to maintain and that somehow translates to them being better than everyone. Studying magic isn’t cheap. It’s not Gladio’s fault that _his_ interests are accessible. 

“Orion” has already made a _very_ bad first impression. It’s... kinda funny. ‘Cause the daemon was only teasing in an attempt to find out why this trip for two has unwanted company. 

“Nah,” drawls Gladio, gaze critical and lips downturned, “I’m not a mage and I don’t pretend to be one.” Nice subtle jab at who he believes to be some rich kid playing at magic like most “mages.” 

“Ah. Well, that’s all right. By the end of the day, I think I might convert you.” Straight white teeth are on full display. “I’ll be your personal pedagogue, if you’d like.” 

“If he wants to learn, he can come to _me_ ,” you snap, bristling. Gladio stiffens beside you, taken aback. Wait. Was that a come on? Did this Spire guy just make a pass at him? 

Oh, boy. Is that a tension headache coming on, right on top of your stress headache? Can those two exist at the same time? Aren’t they the same thing? Either way, it skyrockets from a slight tightening in your frontal lobe to a vise about your skull. The daemon’s stolen face pulls into an innocent expression at the sight of your murderous one. 

A charming, boyish smile is flashed at you and your puzzled boyfriend in the lobby. “I meant nothing by it, (y/n). I’m sure you’ll give Gladiolus _thorough_ lessons if he asks.” 

Admittedly, you probably _shouldn’t_ have told the daemon that you had sex with Gladio. But it has a way of getting things out of you. And by “a way,” I mean it can be absolutely relentless in its badgering that you’d tell it your deepest, darkest secrets just to get it to shut up. So when it noticed you wearing a dumb grin after your time with Gladio and _especially_ after the Shield went through the pains to make sure the daemon wasn’t in the caravan... it _knew_. 

But it had to hear you say it yourself. Gods, the laughter that followed... 

There’s a long, painful silence after the daemon makes that catty comment. That old cliché about being able to hear a pin drop? Yeah, that applies here as Gladiolus stares down the mouthy Spire mage. Animosity comes off of the tall brunet in staggering waves. It’s heartening for the daemon to hear the Shield spit, “And just what the hell are you tryin’ to get at, Orion?” 

Though he’d like to be _nice_ for your sake, since this guy is your acquaintance or whatever, Gladiolus has next to no patience for people who disrespect those he cares for. Honestly, Gladio, Master of Dirty Jokes himself, would probably have a _fit_ if he could hear half the things the daemon has said before. One hand comes up over your mouth and you stare into the dark depths of the daemon’s cold, unfinished coffee, filled with existential dread. 

“Let’s get going,” you blurt before anything else can be said, nearly crushing the paper cup in your hand before putting it down on the lobby counter. “Gladio and I don’t have much time to waste, Orion, so this trip is going to be on the short side.” 

“No problem! That just means we’ll have to cherish every moment today, won’t we?” 

“ _Six…_ ”

And that’s that. Except, of course, that’s _not_ that. 

Though you escape that painful moment that will forever be seared in your memory no matter how much you’d like to repress it, you still have Gladdy to dance around and the daemon to rein in at every turn. Books are stared at and purchased without much thought and pleasantries are spouted all in an effort to keep your sanity. You’ve known that the daemon has a mischievous streak. You’ve _known that_. 

Yet you’re thrown for a loop all the same, like you haven’t had the privilege of getting to know the creature for weeks. It’s taking advantage of its human body in the worst way possible. To be frank, you have your work cut out for you and by the end of this nightmare of a day, you’ll swear that you’re dead inside. 

It’s really unfortunate. 

The creature in stolen skin is becoming more and more like its past self. There’s rationality there in that corrupted mind, but it’s still corrupted. That rationality will fade when you breathe your last breath and send the daemon spiraling back into insanity. But in this moment, right now, it’s itself. An unfortunate thing for Gladiolus Amicitia. But it seems a far more unfortunate thing for _you_ in your valiant effort to deflect suspicion. 

Because you spot those brown eyes flashing in the dimness of an old bookstore and you swear you see a flicker of fiery yellow for a split-second. You hope it’s a trick of the light. But then you see Gladio watching the daemon warily and you’re tempted to throw yourself through the store’s window. It wasn’t a trick of the light and Gladiolus _definitely_ noticed it. And the thing to trigger such a reaction from the daemon was the handsy Shield grabbing you by the hip and bringing you close so he could show you a book on meditation. 

“ _Is the daemon jealous?_ ” You find yourself wondering several times because that impish nature of its seems to explode now that it has a larger audience. 

Idle chatter has left no room for you to gather your wits in silence, even though you’ve played a minimal part in it. A skilled conversationalist, the creature talks a mile a minute and gently works Gladiolus for information on his upbringing, education, and the prominent figures in his life. But it’s not as though the brunet is at all unwilling in this exchange. Gladio goes toe to toe with the daemon with gusto. 

Barbs are dodged and parried with striking finesse and the somewhat confrontational tone that the daemon seems to default to is returned tenfold. Flirtation is rebuffed and back-handed compliments are met with harsh glares and insults that are so thinly veiled you actually cringe. But the daemon isn’t insulted. In fact, it’s highly amused by such great sport. Gladio comes out the victor even as the daemon attempts to rip the rug out from under him with a single question. 

The daemon figures that if your plan to drive out to Cape Caem with it and have it transform in some dark, dirty old cave can’t come to fruition, it might as well have some fun while it’s in this skin. At a food stall, shopping spree blissfully over, the three of you sit and eat kabobs. A bit of a struggle ensues over who will sit next to you at the dingy plastic table with two chairs on one side and one chair on the other, until Gladio just straight up sits you down on his lap. It’s the most childish showdown you’ve ever had the misfortune of being part of. 

Lestallum’s heat is beginning to make wearing your sweater highly uncomfortable and it makes sitting on Gladio extremely impractical. Sweat beads and drips down your brow only to be wiped away by the sleeve of your sweater. “Orion,” on the other hand, is cool as a cucumber. He doesn’t sweat. In fact, sometimes he even forgets to blink. This makes it all the more necessary for you to distract Gladiolus with talk of the books he found. 

Such a lighthearted exchange is observed keenly. Thus far, you’ve evaded being a serious topic of discussion between the two but your luck runs out just as your soda does. Good thing, too, because you almost choke when the daemon suddenly asks, “Gladiolus, are you (y/n)’s lover?” Gladio’s then given one of the most condescending smiles he’s ever received in his entire life. It’s a crooked type of smile with just a hint of white teeth, warm brown eyes hooded and peering at him from beneath dark lashes. It’s _your_ smile. 

That head of dark hair cocks and the Shield scoffs, “Yeah. What’s it to ya?” Instinctively, he tightens his grip around your waist and you wonder if dying is an option. Do you have the power to drop dead? 

Brown eyes flash at that blunt response. Upper lip curls into a satisfied smile and the daemon leans back into its chair. Behind it, people pass by on the street, wearing far more seasonable attire of shorts and t-shirts. “I thought as much. You see, it’s just that (y/n) seems to be very fond of you. I don’t know if you’re aware, but they aren’t a very open or trusting person.” 

“They’re pretty open with me,” Gladio argues, feeling highly defensive of his mage. 

The daemon clucks its tongue and wags its mostly untouched kabob at the amber-eyed man. “See? That’s why I ask. Because that certainly wasn’t their reputation back at the Spire.” 

“Orion,” you warn, voice low. 

Shoulders shrug lazily. “What? I’m not saying anything _bad_. Gladiolus should know how much he means to you. People like to know that they’re appreciated, (y/n).” That lackadaisical tone develops a sharp edge at the end of that sentence. “See, Gladiolus, because back in the Spire, (y/n) was just _too cool_ for anyone- _way_ out of everyone’s league. People thought they were made of ice. I was the head of their fan club, so I should know.” 

“I didn’t have a fan club!” You scoff, drinking watered down soda from the very bottom of your cup. The loud sucking noise sadly isn’t enough to drown out the daemon’s chatter. Gladio wordlessly replaces the empty cup in your hand with his half-finished soda. You drink. 

“Oh, yes you did.” Those chocolate brown eyes widen marginally and you begin to think that the daemon is actually telling the truth. About the fan club not about being the captain or whatever. “We were all just too intimidated by you to say anything.” 

Gladiolus is as still as a statue beneath you. “Sounds like someone’s got a crush,” Gladio teases and it’s not done kindly. 

The daemon throws its head back and laughs. That laughter rings throughout the square and you wince. The way the daemon sobers up so quickly after such a hearty laugh is unsettling. Almost as unsettling as how those dark eyes refuse to blink. “Truthfully? I love them. I would do _anything_ for (y/n).” That blunt response makes Gladiolus’ upper lip twitch. 

“Six, Orion,” you groan, chewing nervously on your straw. 

“What? I was intimidated into silence in college. I figure I might as well tell you of my undying love of you _now_ ,” the daemon teases, though the intention is lost on Gladiolus Amicitia who’s unaware of what “Orion” really is. 

To the brunet, all he sees is an impertinent and forward guy. He doesn’t see the devoted daemon that wears the mask. The daemon that doesn’t love you romantically, but does love you. The daemon that has spilled blood for you and will do so again at any moment. The daemon that hopes the Shield will, too, if the time ever comes. Such a strange way to show love. 

Amber eyes are molten gold right now. “You don’t seem too intimidated now.” 

“They just seem so different outside of the Spire. Happier.” Orion looks at him with a genuinely kind smile. “I guess it’s because of you. Thank you for taking such great care of (y/n).” 

Gladio doesn’t respond. He just looks at the brunet with darkened amber eyes. Though he can tell that the intention is to flatter him ( _Why_ though?), the sentiment makes his hackles rise. “Thank you for taking care of (y/n)?” Orion almost says it as if Gladio has been a placeholder until Orion managed to elbow his way back into your life. Gladiolus is too busy agonizing over Orion’s apparent obsession with you that he completely misses the daemon’s obvious pleasure with the timeliness of his response to the “lover” question. 

To the creature, it can’t exactly read human intention all that well if it isn’t privy to the inner machinations of said human’s mind. Despite having watched over _you_ for a long, long time, _Gladiolus_ is still relatively unknown to the daemon. So, despite the two of you engaging in amorous activities, it couldn’t discern his intentions. It knows human nature well enough to understand that sexual relations don’t necessitate love. That ambivalence made it uneasy. 

Until today, of course. 

The way the Shield nipped every inappropriate question in the bud, not one to suffer fools gladly, was a delight. How he grew so visibly protective and defensive of you was so very satisfying. Head games... What a treat. The stalwart Shield passed every petty test laid out by the daemon. Traps were avoided and attacks were deflected. This has been a most enjoyable interruption of yours and the daemon’s plans. It hopes that today is a sign that it can rely on the Shield in the future. 

_Bzzt!_

You jump at the sensation of your phone going off. All eyes are on you as you glance at your phone’s screen before firing off a text. “It’s been fun catching up, Orion, but Gladiolus and I need to go.” 

“Oh, that’s all right. I really enjoyed meeting your boyfriend.”

“Right,” you sigh at the creature’s pushiness. Gods, what’s this thing’s angle? Is it _trying_ to drive you mad? Irritation is covered up with a prim smile and a polite, “But do you mind if we have a private word before I head out?” 

There’s that toothy grin again. “Of course!” 

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot with the others. We won’t be long, Gladdy,” you inform the brunet. Amber eyes simmer down at you, worry apparent in his gaze, and you sigh dramatically before giving him a swift peck on the cheek. There’s reassurance there. Gladiolus knows you’re an adult and that you’re a capable mage. He’d never want to be _smothering_... Resigned, the Shield makes no objections as you hop off of his lap and wander down an alley with the daemon on your heels. 

A corner is turned and you round on the daemon. “What in the everloving _hell_ was all of that nonsense?” You hiss. 

The daemon beams. “I think he likes me.”

“He probably thinks you’re in love with me. Could you _be_ anymore creepy or obnoxious?” 

“But does he think I’m a daemon? No. I’d say I did a good job.” The daemon adjusts its sweater, looking proud of itself. In this dingy alley full of pipes and garbage bins, the sharply dressed daemon looks so out of place and so do you. You’re a couple of snooty looking Spire mages hanging out in a dirty alley. “Do you think you can convince the others to let me come along? Call it vanity, but I’d quite like to meet the Oracle with an attractive face.” 

A derisive snort leaves you. “Absolutely _not_.” 

That head of neatly combed brown hair bobs. “Ah, that might be pushing it. You’re right. I’ll just pop in from time to time when you’re in more populated areas that are less... _emotionally_ charged. It would be too suspicious if I appeared at a campground or something of that nature, too.” 

“It would be suspicious if you showed up again _at all_.” Arms cross over your chest and you query, “What makes you think you’re gonna meet the Oracle, anyway?” 

“Because I’m always with you, of course,” the daemon responds smartly, almost condescending. “But I would greatly appreciate it if you would allow me to wear this face sometimes. It feels nice to walk on two legs and to be able to speak and be heard. It feels... I can’t describe it. To have a face again...” 

“Okay,” you easily relent, if only to cut this conversation short so you can leave. Your consent is also motivated a bit by pity, though you’ll never admit to that. “But don’t make a habit of it.” 

“Only if necessary,” the daemon assents. “Orion Spiros had a slight affinity for fire spells that I can utilize to your benefit. But a formal request to take this form isn’t the only thing I’d hoped to bend your ear over. The time draws near and we must speak about the Oracle.” 

“ _Wait. What?_ ”

Puzzled, you ask, “What time draws near?” 

“I just wanted to say... It was good of you to extend your protection to the Oracle," the daemon expertly dodges, because now you’re distracted by an even more puzzling statement. 

"Why bring that up so suddenly?” You ask uneasily.

A pointed look is shot your way. "We’re going to Altissia. We’ll be seeing her soon, so it seemed a right enough time to tell you that I know about the pact you made with the Oracle. While Lysandra failed in her duty, blinded by pride and patriotism, I’m positive you’ll do what it takes to fulfill your family’s duty to _both_ family lines. The Mage protects the King above all else but what is a Mage if they don’t uphold contracts?" 

“Right,” you drawl, made uncomfortable by the daemon’s extensive knowledge of the goings on of your life, past and present. “I have to go now. Sorry that I have to leave you behind.” 

“Of course. It couldn’t be helped. Drive safe.” The daemon shoots you a reassuring smile and pats your shoulder, so familiar, like an old relative you haven’t seen in an age. “I’ll be there before you know it.” 

Something about that rhetorical question strikes you as odd, though. So strange for the daemon to talk about that old, secretive pact; that promise between two families. Not borne out of lust, as rumored by those who discovered the secret, but out of a whisper in an ancestor's ear from a lipless mouth eons ago. The daemon sees the power of that family line, bestowed by Bahamut, and seeks to amplify it and _use_ it. 

“Ready to go?” Gladio asks the second you come into view, leaning against the Regalia as you approach the scooter that’s parked neatly next to the car. 

You hadn’t even realized that you’d wandered out of the alley and into the parking lot. Gods, you crossed an entire street without even being cognizant of it. The way those amber eyes rake over you for any sign of a single hair out of place doesn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated. Wait. He wants an excuse to punch “Orion,” doesn’t he? 

“You bet!” You answer the Shield after a slight delay, grinning in a vain attempt to shake off your troubles. You’re rewarded with an appreciative snort for your enthusiasm. 

As you start up the moped and head down the road, the daemon’s words echo in your mind. You watch the daemon in your side mirror as it exits the alley that spills out onto the street. It keeps one hand up in a motionless wave, a serene smile on those lips and those dark eyes unblinking. 

All this time, you’ve been looking forward to getting to Altissia. There were many bumps in the road, but it’s finally happening. And yet... Eyes glance in the side mirror once more. The smile is gone from the daemon’s face. That hand drops back down to its side and it turns away to reenter the dark, lonely alley.


	50. 17. Crystalline

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now we finally enter chapter 9 of the game’s canon material. Y’all already know how you’re gonna save Noct. Since I didn’t get any pushback when I asked if y’all wanted to save as many characters as possible, you’re going to see how you’ll save some other lovely characters. All at your expense, of course. Just put ‘em on your tab. Your... soul tab... 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Morality is Gray, Partners in Crime, Mega Angst, Bad Foreshadowing, Hopping Through Time Like a Rabbit, Just Magey Things, Intense Tense Flippage, Eos’ Next Top Necromancer™, 3Edgy5Me, Info Dump, Slight Unintentional Scrying, Mild Luna Crush, Mages Making Bad Decisions, Lies Lies Lies, Suspect Daemons, """Lore"""  & """Visions"""

** 17\. Crystalline  **

Illusion is, at its heart, deception. 

Though you have no idea, you’re being primed to pull off the largest illusion in the history of mankind. The world will be transfixed by your parlor trick for years to come. A line you’d drawn for yourself with regard to lying to your allies will be crossed once and for all. When this last great act of deception finally comes to light, your friends will have a difficult time coming to terms with it.  Your shrewdness will be a tough thing to defend. 

But you won’t pull it off alone. A wonderful assistant is found in the daemon. Unbeknownst to you, you become a key piece in a game that it has been orchestrating since long before you were born. Two parties sit at opposite ends of the board and you stand in the middle; the treasured piece, the valued pawn. Irreplaceable yet exposed to all sorts of dangers for the sake of the game.  And you finally establish your role as a serious _player_ , rather than a _piece_ , in this game when you pull off the greatest caper in Eos right in Altissia. 

It’s a bizarre chain of events that gets you to this point. Everything Ardyn put you through couldn’t quite get you to this place in your life. Yes, he taught you about deception, but he was hardly your introduction to it. From birth you sat in a den of vipers, blinking your doleful eyes at  the serpents, _learning_ from them. So it was long before Ardyn even entered the picture that peddling falsehoods was part of your established repertoire. 

The redhead just helped you be _good_ at it. 

The Spire of Duscae is the last place any rational person would go if they were searching for a moral compass in Eos. Though Decima Iovita’s moral compass was seemingly made of gold, as was Dr. Drusa Alomar’s, the two weren’t above dabbling in lies. And you watched. And you listened. And you realized that sometimes a little lie goes a long way. So, _why not_ tell one great big one?  Ramuh has yet to strike you down for your silver tongue, after all. 

When you’re asked to defend yourself, you instruct your accusers to imagine a crystal. You ask them to describe it. All of them say it’s smooth and spherical, likely inspired by the one in your staff. “Crack open that perfect crystal and look at the myriad of facets that take form.” A slow, sinful smirk curls your lips as you say, “It’s not _my_ fault that you only ever saw _one_ facet.” Because only fools believe in taking things at face value. 

Add a dash of bitterness and a whole lot of desperation. 

What a heady mix. A propensity for the perfidious and an obsession with duty. The Mage establishes themselves as a _moral liar_. You’re a walking oxymoron and in the years to come that trait will keep everyone on their toes and will make them turn their back on you. But you’ll always have the game. And after a few years of isolation, you’ll learn to look fondly on the events that occurred in Altissia as one of your greatest accomplishments.  It helps you keep your sanity. 

But back to the bizarre chain of events. Of course any number of oddities from your childhood might be pointed at as what really made (y/n) Iovita “go rogue.” But the thing that triggers it all happens when you’re an adult. It happens right in Altissia. There’s no great build-up, as many will speculate when they put their heads together to postulate about the motivations of the chancellor’s cold-blooded Archon. 

No. 

It’s not even _dramatic_. It’s so very benign in nature that it doesn’t even make the history books. It’s white lace behind a pane of glass. It’s starry-eyed hope in the eyes of civilians. It’s the fluttering, mechanical sound of a camera’s shutter. Many people looked at the Oracle’s wedding dress before she died. The fact that Archon (y/n) the Summoner did so in their youth is hardly noteworthy.  Yet it’s what turns the beautiful waterlogged city into the stage for that one great big lie. 

When you all get to Altissia and learn that Lady Lunafreya is essentially being held prisoner, there’s a discontented croak from the depths of your bag. It goes ignored, much to the daemon’s frustration. A running commentary ensues as you explore the city with the others, a smile plastered on your face when the daemon slips into some foreign tongue that makes goosebumps break out along your skin. 

And then you see it. 

While there are typical feelings of melancholy and anxiety at the sight of Lady Lunafreya’s wedding gown, you feel something else. It’s followed by a request to go back to the hotel room while the others continue to explore the city. You’re given curious and concerned looks when you  insist that the boat ride wore you out and that you’ll just do a bit of light reading before resting up for whatever tomorrow brings. 

“Tomorrow brings work,” deadpans Noct. “With the meeting coming up, we can’t afford to rest.” The royal is obviously keyed up at the idea of his childhood friend being in such a precarious position. Little does he know that you weren’t exactly thrilled to hear of Lunafreya’s predicament, either. But no one knows of your meeting with the Oracle. Well, that’s not _exactly_ true, but... 

“We’ll call you for dinner,” Ignis stresses, pale brow creased. His magical companion has been acting a little odd as of late and he isn’t quite sure where to pin the blame. When he’d sewn up your sweater for you and got the blood out of the material, you’d been a bit squirrelly. Thanks were given and you all but snatched the cardigan out of his hand. He was unaware that you had a dead insect in your pocket that you didn’t want him to find. 

Prompto smacks your back as you begin to step away from everyone. “I’ll take a bunch of pics just for you, (y/n)! Don’t want you missing out on _too_ much.” 

A convincing smile comes easily to your face. It reaches your eyes and relaxes your posture. “Thanks,” you say, voice aloof and just tired enough. 

Gladio shoots you a lingering look before scolding, “Don’t read _too_ much. I think you’ve been straining your eyes.” 

And then you’re finally, mercifully alone in the hotel room after a quick walk. Curtains are drawn and the daemon changes form. You already know what skin it’s chosen before it even utilizes that somewhat melodious voice to spit, “This is absolutely _ridiculous_.” Muffled footsteps approach you in the darkened room and the curtains are ripped open. Brown eyes flutter shut at the sensation of sunshine dancing along cold skin. 

“What is?” You ask, voice tired and a bit strained.  On jelly legs, you make your way to the bed and collapse onto it. Admittedly, you _are_ a bit tired from the journey. Traveling by boat was more stressful than you thought it would be. Then again, with your inability to swim considering you had absolutely no chance to learn in the Spire, you were maybe too paranoid about the boat capsizing than any rational person would have been. 

Skin is sticky with sweat and salt water but you turn and bury your face in the soft sheets nonetheless. They smell of floral detergent and vanilla air-freshener. The Leville’s room is spacious if a bit garishly decorated and you find yourself yearning for the simplicity of one of the many caravans you’ve spent the night in. There’s just something about this room that doesn’t feel welcoming.  It takes you a moment to realize it’s the anger radiating from the daemon. 

“The Oracle is a political prisoner.” That voice is so full of bitterness that you can almost taste it. “Reduced to a mere bargaining chip. The King, the Oracle, and the Mage are on the precipice of extinction. The world’s Light will be extinguished for the sake of petty politicking.” The daemon turns to you just as you sit up to look at it, hands clasped behind its back, brown eyes darkened. “Can you imagine a more ridiculous reason for this world to die out?” 

“Actually, I can. But this is a serious conversation, so I won’t throw out any jokes.” At the sight of pursed lips, you huff, “I trust Noctis will be able to convince First Secretary Claustra to release Lady Lunafreya into our custody. I’m sure we’ll be doing some odd jobs in the city to make us look favorable and I don’t doubt Noct can be _kingly_ if need be. As long as he doesn’t laugh,” you add as an afterthought, flopping back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. 

“I admire your faith in your king. However,” the daemon turns back to staring out of the window, posture rigid, “I’ve never been one to remain idle.” 

“Neither have I,” you reply as you rest idly on the bed. 

Thoughts are consumed by that wedding dress. It’s not even the fact that it’s a wedding dress that needles you. It’s what it symbolizes: A lie. The greatest trick pulled by the Empire. The Oracle and the “treaty” were used like pieces on a chessboard and the endgame was Insomnia’s destruction and the theft of the Crystal. And to have people staring at it, in awe, as if the deception never even took place? As if lives weren’t lost? 

A pretty lie for an ugly outcome. 

Shoulders pull back and the daemon straightens its spine. Fiery yellow peeks through a veil of brown, staring down at the crowded streets and the vendors that vie for the attention of tourists. Reservation enters its voice as it slowly questions, “Then will you accompany me to meet with the Oracle? I think she would be put at ease to see a familiar face even if the last time you two met was years ago.” 

“She’s in custody, remember?” Elbows dig into the comfy mattress to prop you up, they sink in a bit before your bodyweight finally adjusts. “I highly doubt Lady Lunafreya is allowed visitors, given the reason for her confinement. And considering the Summit isn’t for a few days, our presence would be suspicious.” 

“(y/n), I thought by now you’d realize that I can get into places I’m not wanted, though it has to be under cover of darkness.” 

A bit of haughtiness is detected in that tone but you gloss over it. If there’s anyone with absolutely no room to give someone grief for being arrogant, it’s you. “Right. And while you can travel via shadow or whatever, _I_ can’t,” you point out rather pointlessly, given the daemon is fully aware of all of your limitations, perhaps more than you are. 

Its body twists slightly at the waist and that head of neatly combed brown hair turns so that one molten chocolate eye can pin you down. “I can take you with me.” There’s a sinful drawl to that proposition, like the offering of forbidden fruit. The actual fruit has yet to be offered. The pitch is coming soon. 

“And then what?” Legs cross, a gesture reserved for when you’re preparing for a long talk or a heated debate. The guys have learned to fear that laid-back lift and gentle drop of your right leg over your left. “You get me into wherever the Oracle is being held and then...?” 

The creature turns toward you fully now, thinking that it has piqued your interest, and rightly so. Head cocks ever so slightly, white teeth on full display to convey some vague memory of what it means to be appealing. “And then we’ll see to it that you make good on that promise of yours. If your king fails at the Summit or if he fails Leviathan’s trial, _you_ can’t afford to.” 

There’s no doubt in your mind that Noctis is equipped to succeed at both with flying colors. Then again, you’ve begun to realize that you have a tendency to put the guy up on a pretty high pedestal. Does this revelation mean you’ll take him off of it? Probably not. But it _does_ mean that you’re open to taking adequate precautions should he fail. So, all of the daemon’s enticing words are doubly effective, even if you play up your skepticism. 

“Well, what exactly are we gonna do? Spirit her away?”  


“No,” the daemon shoots you down without missing a beat. “The Oracle and the King must play  their part in order to forge the covenant. But Leviathan is temperamental, at best, and the Oracle is in a frail state. I’d like you to convince the Oracle to allow me to mark her.” 

Brain chugs along only to come to a screeching halt. A few comments pass the smell test: Yes, Lunafreya’s health is declining due to convening with the Astrals and yes you’ve heard that the Hydraean has a destructive streak, but... _What_? “Okay, you’re going to need to explain that one to me. Because I can only think of two things ‘mark’ might mean and one of them is dumb and the other is gross.” 

“It’s a benign spell, a type of _ward_ , in fact. It’ll allow me to sense when she’s in mortal danger so I can find her and render aid. I did it to you when you were a child.” Brown eyes flicker over you, pale brow puckering as realization dawns on it. You’re second-guessing its power, aren’t you? It hastens to assure you, “I’ve marked a few people in my lifetime, if you’re worried that I’m inexperienced.” 

For a long time, you stay on the soft mattress, staring down the daemon. Dark hair stands in stark contrast to the pale blue of the wallpaper behind the daemon’s head. There’s no threat of your unblinking gaze unsettling the creature. In fact, those lithe arms are crossed and it imitates one of your relaxed poses against the wall beside the window. A few moments later, it cracks a smile and effectively snaps you out of your daze. 

“Do you still have me marked?” You ask slowly, suspiciously. 

“Of course,” is the daemon’s immediate response. It’s a little too immediate for you, to tell the truth. “It’s how I always find you. But I’ll only be able to help if it’s dark out or if the Oracle is in a poorly lit space.” A pale hand waves listlessly through the air. “Alas, the limitations of my daemonic form.” 

“She won’t feel anything, will she?” 

A dark eyebrow rises. “ _You_ didn’t.” 

“Yeah, well,” you drawl, clucking your tongue, “I don’t _remember_ you marking me. Will she feel anything or not?” 

“The Oracle shouldn’t feel more than a slight tingle of energy up her spine. She’ll be unharmed,” assures the daemon, nodding its head once. 

This feels invasive and more than a little creepy. Marking for the sake of being able to find Lunafreya no matter where she is? What the hell kind of magic is that? In fact, you’d argue there’s quite a strong case to say that this is akin to putting a tracking device on someone without their consent. Except the daemon is asking you to _get_ that consent... So where the hell was _your_ opt-in/opt-out card? Did it get lost in the mail? 

Ignoring the fact that this creature tagged you like a game warden tagging a wild animal and has been able to track you for gods know how long, you reveal the holes in this plan. “What _if_ she’s harmed in daylight? What can you do then? Being able to track her won’t do any good if you can only get to her within a certain period of time.” 

“Like I said, _if_ the Oracle is harmed in daylight, I _won’t_ be able to save her,” the daemon admits. There’s a flash of yellow and you wish you could place bets on what the daemon is going to say next because you’d be raking in the cash right now. “But _you_ can.” 

“ _Called it._ ”  


“This is a segue into necromancy talk, isn’t it?” Tone is flat as you ask this. Because you have all  the telltale signs: That cryptic tone, the coiling of its muscles like an animal ready to strike. “You’re saying I can save her by bringing her back from the dead, aren’t you? With the amount of life force that’d require, I’ll bring back Lunafreya and snuff _myself_ out. And _by the way_ , I’ve got a bone to pick with you.” 

Chocolate brown eyes watch as you situate yourself on the edge of the bed, elbows now planted on your thighs. “Oh? Pick as you please,” the daemon casually invites your inquiry. 

“Regarding the whittling away of my life, why the heck did you wait so long to tell me that I was being punished for using the daemons? You’ve watched me practice with them half a dozen times before and _never_ said anything.” 

Ah... what a question to start with. Though it just encouraged your line of questioning, the daemon is unsure of how to progress, of how to properly answer you. A naturally inquisitive mage, too perceptive for their own good and terribly shrewd. All traits that at one point the daemon had encouraged in you. The irony of those traits being weaponized against it doesn’t go unappreciated. 

Because while your memories of the daemon remain foggy and spoiled by fear, the daemon’s memories of a life long before you are coming into focus. Day by day, more emerge, and with them comes an avalanche of information and repressed emotion. Shame used to be a dream, some abstract concept, but now it’s all the daemon feels when life is breathed into another memory. That shame is what prevents the creature from speaking its true name and fully revealing itself to you. 

A fear of rejection and of culpability.  A fear that makes it lower itself to wear that crown and continue to lie and call itself Ifrit’s Messenger. To don a cloak of stolen skins and remain in the Mage’s shadow, speaking from both sides of its mouth. It fears your rejection most of all because it has already been rejected by everyone and everything it cared about in the life it lost so long ago. You’re all it has left. You’re _everything_ that it has. The daemon tells itself that it can’t afford to lose you, so it shames itself and becomes a coward for the sake of a companion. 

A charming laugh, a tilt of a head. “I forgot.” 

“Wh-? How can you _forget_ something like that?” You balk, mouth slightly agape a moment after you ask this until you recompose yourself. 

The daemon shrugs away from the wall and steps back in front of the window to gaze down at the people who pass by below. Families are watched keenly. There’s an ache in that hollow chest. It confesses, “You may not believe me when I say this, but I’m remembering more about myself. From before I was a daemon, I mean.” 

There’s a lot to parse out and analyze from such a simple statement. You’ve known that people who succumb to the Starscourge can eventually become daemons, so that isn’t earth-shattering news. What _is_ intriguing and highly suspect is that this alleged Messenger of Ifrit was once human. And you’re ashamed to admit you never wondered who the daemon used to be before they were... _this_. 

Reading those eyes? That face? It’s almost impossible. It’s a bit disturbing that you can read the daemon’s true, ruined face better than when it wears a literal mask. The majority of what you read is highly projected. Those eyes are dead and unreadable and the daemon seems to be having trouble properly getting down the nuance of facial expressions with a human mask. This works to its advantage for now. 

Any emotion that the daemon hopes to convey in this skin is hidden behind an opaque veil. Intent struggles to break through the surface, leaving authenticity to suffer and be brought into question. Every expression feels contrived and disingenuous. Even with time and practice, the daemon will fail to master the art of expression. The trouble with not having a real face in millennia and the trouble with not wanting to be found out, as well. 

But you? You’re still an open book for the daemon. For a being that watched you grow up, it’s easy to read the tension in your body and the hardening of your expression. An onslaught of questions is imminent. Lips part and the daemon prepares itself just as you wonder, “If you used to be human, how are you a Messenger, then? Were you a Messenger before you turned? Or after? Were you even human to begin with?” 

That rapid-fire way of questioning? It’s a dizzying thing to be on the receiving end of. To think that at one point, back in the Spire, the daemon used to laugh when you’d do it to magisters as a child. That hissing laughter would float up from the shadows to spook passersby. To see the magisters’ stunned faces as that back-talking mageling struggled to spit out lengthy words that they didn’t even know the meaning of? The daemon chuckles at the memory now. 

“My point is that I’ve started to remember things,” it answers evasively. “I didn’t withhold that information from you about your punishment on purpose, I just wasn’t aware of it. My memories are slowly coming back to me and I’ll inform you of any other relevant developments. I’d like for you to trust me, so it’s the least I can do to build that bridge.” 

Its politeness never ceases to make you feel guilty for taking a brusque tone with the daemon. With a hearty sigh, you relent, “Okay. I mean, you don’t really _have_ to tell me anything unless it’s something on par with me slowly dying for using souls. If you recall something personal, I’m not demanding you tell me.” 

“Ah. You grant me personhood. That’s very kind of you.” Lips curl up into a disarming smile. Those lean legs carry the daemon over to one of the leather chairs that sits across from the bed you’re seated on. In one smooth, elegant motion, it sits and crosses its legs how you had done earlier. “May I teach you something that I’ve remembered? It’s relevant to what we were previously discussing.” 

“About marking and Lady Lunafreya?” A sigh floats right on out of you when the daemon nods. “ _Sure_.” 

“It deals with necromancy. Are you still so sure?”  


“ _After those wonderful chats about how I’m killing myself just to use daemon souls? Why not kill_ _myself in another way?_ ”  


The thought has you pinching the bridge of your nose. “Yes. Fine. Teach me your ways, o wise  daemon.” 

Perfectly content now, the daemon rests its elbows on the armrests, steeples its fingers, and sinks back into the chair comfortably. “I’m happy that you’re starting to come around, (y/n). Because I know how you work and have seen how adept you are at black magic, I’d like to propose starting you off with the theory of a complex form of necromancy. It’s called fully regenerative necromancy or fully restorative necromancy.” 

Honestly? Thank the _Six_ it’s going the theoretical route. For a moment you were worried it had a dead animal on hand or something and you two were going to reenact that little horror-show from your childhood. Though you’re still on edge, waiting for the daemon to pull a dead toad or a rat from its sweater, you wonder, genuinely curious, “And the difference is...?” 

An easy smile crosses those lips. You’ve always been a good student and the daemon is happy to have such a receptive audience. To be a teacher again and pass down its knowledge has been one of its greatest wishes. "One heals, returns a soul, and gives life but the other _only_ gives life. The first rule of fully regenerative necromancy is that you have to be sure that the soul is still lingering, otherwise you can only perform _regenerative necromancy_ where you have a fully healed _thrall_. 

“The easiest way to check for the presence of a soul is to meditate and look for the soul’s light. I know you already have practice with that, so we won’t go into detail; just know that souls that _want_ to be returned never stray too far from the body so you shouldn’t waste time searching. The second rule for this magic is that you need to know your wounds. Necromancy gives life but that can be too superficial as it won’t address cause of death and consequently won’t heal. Don't be afraid to get intimate-" 

"Don't ever say that again with regard to a corpse," you interrupt, pointing a finger at the daemon. 

"Just...” The daemon pinches the bridge of its nose. “ _Know the wound_. Feel the wound, imagine how life drained out from it. It helps if you were present when death occurred so that you have better knowledge of the circumstances of death. Then you turn back the clock- not literally, we aren't working with time loops- and imagine the body being whole once more. Scarring is natural but there's less of a chance of it the sooner you get to the wound. 

"That's _regenerative_ magic, the only branch in black where you can come close to healing like with white. Have a care if you choose to do it to a living person as it will be painful since it focuses on dead tissue, not merely wounds. The next part is to return the soul, which is why it’s so important to check that it’s there in the first place or else it’s a wasted effort. This occurs in tandem with the return of life. The trade off happens here, where most novice necromancers err. 

“Those traded years can come from you or someone else. If you’re resurrecting a human, you should remember that humans have longer lifespans compared to most creatures. If you're adept, you can bring someone back and give them a year using a lesser creature. If you aren't, you'll be stuck with two dead bodies. When you succeed in giving life, the soul will naturally reenter the body.  I've been acquiring years for... well, years. I have centuries of unused time, of un-lived life to trade off. So, for all foreseeable instances of necromancy, _I'll_ be the one in charge, (y/n). Unless, of course, you'd like to start making contracts with mortals. They do so love trading away things they consider intangible for the tangible magic you can grace them with." 

“ _Uh.._.” 

"No, thanks!” You blurt, still processing that information. Thank the gods you’re accustomed to listening to lecturers who don’t use the chalkboard or the whiteboard even though it’s _right there_ behind them. Still, you wish you’d hit record on your phone or something. Brown eyes watch you and you add with a teasing smile, “When it comes to giving life, you can be like... my daemon necromancer sugar daddy or something." 

Lips twitch, not fully understanding the joke. “Then it’s settled. We’ll practice at your earliest convenience.” 

“ _Aw, shit._ ” 

Well, you should’ve figured the daemon wouldn’t be satisfied with you simply acquainting yourself with the theory of fully regenerative necromancy. _Of course_ it would want you to practice. Hands rest by your thighs on the bed. Eyes watch the daemon from beneath your eyelashes. “You seem pretty excited to have finally got your way.” 

And the daemon does indeed look like the cat that got the canary. “While I don’t expect you to become a full-fledged necromancer, I’m hoping to at least impart upon you some vital skills that you can use later on in life. Who knows? You just might save yourself or someone else.” 

“From an Astral? ‘Cause based on our earlier chat, you’re talking like you’re pumping me up to smash a mug over Leviathan’s head or rough her up in a dark alley if Noct botches everything.” 

That expression? It reads: Unimpressed. The daemon hums, “Hm... This is no laughing matter, (y/n).” 

“All right, I’ll drop it. _Thank you_ for being my teacher,” you sigh in exasperation though a smile quirks your lips. 

Just as the daemon opens its mouth to respond, dark eyes glinting, the ringing of your phone ends the conversation before another word can be uttered. Considering you have only a handful of contacts, you answer without looking. A familiar voice rings out, warm and comforting, “H- Hello?” 

Head cocks and you ask, confused though you really shouldn’t be, “Drusa?” 

“Yes? Okay, we ought to stop acting like we’re surprised to hear each other answer our respective phones,” the magister chuckles. “How are you?” 

The daemon sinks further into the chair to mimic casual ease but those dark eyes remain on you. Can’t say it’s ever really understood boundaries, considering it marked your sorry butt years ago and has voyeuristic tendencies. With this in mind, you aren’t surprised when it doesn’t do something any normal person would do, like politely leave the room or at least go back to looking out of the window. 

Flopping back down on the bed so you don’t have to look the daemon in the eye the whole damn time (and also a bit relieved that you don’t need to find an awkward segue out of a surprisingly thorough necromancy talk), you answer, “I’m good.” Body adjusts on the plush bed and you politely inform your old instructor, “I just got into Altissia, actually. We’re staying at the Lev-” 

“No. Don’t tell me where you are,” Drusa cuts you off, her voice going a bit low. There’s a tense silence broken by the sound of a door’s lock being double and then triple checked. “Have you been to the arena? It’s a bit barbaric but people take their pleasure in strange places.” 

“I thought you didn’t want me to tell you where I was?” 

“I don’t. I wasn’t expecting you to answer, honestly,” Dru stresses. She’s sat at her desk now, twirling a pen between her dark fingers and tapping her right foot. It’s been a while since she’s heard your voice and though she’s relieved, she’s not fool enough to forget her surroundings. And neither should you. The magister scolds, “Especially not specific locations, (y/n). Let’s not be in the habit of mentioning your location _at all_ , hm? Just to be on the safe side.” 

“Don’t want to be overheard by Spire _spies_?” When she doesn’t immediately respond, you complain, “I wish you wouldn’t stay there.” 

“Where?” Drusa wonders in that high, joking voice of hers, “My office?” 

A scowl immediately crosses your face. Fingers tug restlessly at the striped duvet beneath you. “ _Ha ha_. No. _The Spire_. You aren’t safe there.” There’s a shift of fabric and you know the daemon is adjusting itself. Can it hear all of this? Thumb lowers the volume on your phone. 

“Don’t worry about me, dear,” Drusa tuts, a smile in her voice. But then something else enters her voice. That usually soft tone becomes strained and stiff. It has you stilling your fingers and staring fixedly at a spot that looks like a blobby cat on the ceiling. “I... may or may not have said some cruel things about you and your mother. All in the name of acting, really.” 

It’s true. When Dru first arrived at the Spire, Decima had all but demanded her childhood friend say the most vile things about your family in the company of the other magisters in order to infiltrate their ranks. As a result, she’s now part of the “collective.” Any plot that Drusa was privy to was made known to Decima. Poisoning schemes, however, were above her pay-grade. 

Drusa had lied and said that any perceived bond that she had with you was purely for her own benefit. “The Arch-Mage is more likely to give a pay raise or even consider tenure for those her little brat likes,” she’d sneered when questioned. That evening, she gave you a book out of guilt for calling you a “brat” behind your back.  Oh, the _humanity_. 

But there’s a hint of irony there. When Drusa first arrived at the Spire, she wasn’t immediately allowed in your company despite being a dear friend of your mother’s. The ruse needed to be believable. And why would a new instructor make a beeline for a fellow magister’s child? As she waited to gain the trust of Talmudge and the rest of his ilk, Drusa was bombarded with all sorts of nasty rumors about Decima Iovita’s bizarre child. She brushed most off. But others? 

Well, it _wasn’t_ a comfort when she told Decima the most odd rumors only for her friend to stiffen before denying them. Drusa was a little wary of you. And why wouldn’t she be? She knew her best friend well enough to know that you were communing with daemons at a young age. She told herself that maybe they were spirits. Or, and she really enjoyed this one, _Messengers_. The Iovitas are mysterious like that. At least, she told herself that. 

“Drusa Alomar: International Spy,” you tease, snapping the older woman out of her little reverie. She doesn’t know why she suddenly started thinking about the daemon rumors. 

Her embarrassment is palpable once she reengages in the conversation. “Oh, _hush_. What does it say about you that you were far more respectful as a child than you are as an adult?” 

“That I’m jaded and disaffected?”  


She clucks her tongue at you. “Sweetheart, you’re too young to be so jaded.” 

“This is the part where I get really edgy and tell you that I was _born_ jaded,” you soberly inform her. 

“Very funny.” Her eye-roll is practically audible. “But back to the topic at hand. I’m honestly fine, dear. Besides, I’m more useful to you here at the Spire than out in the field.” 

Fingers go back to picking at the duvet, restless once more. “How so? If we’re talking utility, you’re more _useful_ to me safe and sound.” 

“Don’t be so dramatic. But enough of me rambling. I called you for a reason.” Again, that tension reenters her voice. Drusa stares at papers on her desk; at dried-out inkwells and the crystals she took from Decima’s office. There are boxes all around the room, all filled with Decima’s belongings. She can’t bring herself to touch them. “I have... Well, I have some news. It hasn’t been made public yet. In fact, I highly doubt it will be made public at all.” 

“What is it?” 

There’s a strange sound on her end. It’s a bit rattling, a bit static. You realize she’s taking in a steadying breath. “Former Arch-Mage Talmudge Ainsworth has gone missing.” 

You sit up so fast that the blood rushes to your head. The room spins for a moment but you still hiss out from between your teeth, “ _Missing_? Since when?” You’re unsurprised to find that the daemon still stares. “And _former_? Six, how long has the bastard been missing that he’s now called ‘former’ and why am I just now hearing of it?” 

She knew you’d be mad. _Oh_ , she knew it! Drusa wanted to tell you sooner but things in the Spire have been tense. Imperial soldiers randomly drop by now and scour the building, obviously looking for you though the reason is never disclosed. And then that strange redheaded man stopped by right before Talmudge went missing. However, Dru believes her speculations won’t help you right now.  Instead, she answers matter-of-factly, “He’s been gone for about a week. I couldn’t find the time to contact you until now.” 

“Drusa, how did he go missing?” Tone is too abrasive but you don’t correct yourself. “A person can’t just vanish from a place that they spend 99.9% of their time at. I know the Spire is massive but it’s not massive enough to lose someone.” 

The magister swears she won’t speculate. Gods, the look in that strange man’s eyes when he passed her by on his way to the Arch-Mage’s office... Dru clears her throat, taps that pen some more. “I don’t know the ‘how,’ (y/n), but I really needed to call you _now_ because a statement was issued to the college this morning. Direct from Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt, the acting Arch-Mage of the Spire is _you_ , as is your birthright. Currently, Magister Horace is simply acting as your proxy by rank. He doesn’t get the title or anything.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“He said in his statement,” there’s a rustle of paper, “that this is to be a sign of the Empire’s appreciation and respect of such a revered family line.” You snort when she says ‘revered’ but she pushes on, “He’s even entreated you to come out of hiding and speak with him about joining his council.” 

The wall behind the daemon is infinitely fascinating. That pattern in the wallpaper is burned into your eyes, visible even when you close them. You’re quiet, sitting in silent fury for so long that Drusa checks her phone to make sure the call didn’t drop. Finally, after you’ve made certain that you won’t lose your temper, you laugh so sarcastically that Drusa actually winces, “Six, is the college _really_ getting orders from the emperor now?” 

“It _is_ odd, isn’t it?” Dru agrees. “None of the kings ever lorded their authority over the Spire.” 

“So, to recap, what you’re telling me is that Talmudge got whacked and I’m still being propositioned, since my honor can so easily be bought by the Empire.” Fingers drum against your knee. A muscle in your jaw twitches as you grit your teeth together. Talmudge is gone? Out of the picture? And you weren’t even the one to pull the trigger? Across from you, the daemon watches the storm in your eyes, watches as the lightning flashes. “That motherfu-” 

“(y/n),” Drusa warns, always there to mother you. 

“Whatever was done to Talmudge was too kind. The emperor should’ve given up while he was ahead, you know. All of those people around him,” you’re thinking of one in particular, “and not _one_ told him any better? To proposition the child of the woman he killed? To proposition the king’s arcane advisor? He insults me at every turn and now he’s only further infuriated me by  stealing my chance for revenge. By taking _yet another_ thing from me!”  


“Lower your voice,” the daemon murmurs, lips barely moving, and you’re calmed. The storm  inside you quiets.  


“Vengeance is never the answer, (y/n). Your mother-” 

Shoulders square, spine straightens, and you lift your chin as you interrupt, “My mother would understand that I’m my own person. Look what being a paragon of morality got her, Drusa. She didn’t even get a proper funeral. I’m going to hurt the ones who took her from me and I’m going to make their pain last. The emperor took one person off of my list but he’s still on it. In fact, he’s on there _twice_ now.” 

Back in the Spire, Drusa puts her hand on her forehead. Decima always warned her that you inherited your father’s flagrant lack of respect for authority figures and your grandfather’s fury, but the magister never saw it first-hand. Gods, this is a mess. Gods, she misses her friend. “If this list of yours is what I think it is- and it had better _not_ be- how do you expect to kill someone twice, (y/n)? You aren’t a necromancer... Nor should you become one! Do you hear me?” 

Her words resonate with you. The daemon stares at you. Only one of them wins. 

Eyes flutter shut. Temper cools. Posture slouches once more as you sag on the bed, weighed down by all of this news. “It was good catching up with you, Drusa,” you smile, voice so, so tired. “Be safe and when you get the chance... _get out_.” The call is ended and you stare at your phone. The daemon can sense your inner turmoil. This is quite serendipitous. It _needs_ you to be passionate about your goals. 

“I’ve never had the patience for human politics,” a polite voice informs you in the suddenly too- quiet room. 

“No?” You ask softly, looking up to stare into that kind face. 

“Mmhm. They tend to bastardize principles of justice. Laws without ethics. Governing bodies without mercy. I tend to circumvent them altogether.” 

Eyes remain on that pleasant visage. Now, you’re so tired. One phone call and you’re so very tired, so very discontent. “May I ask you a question? And I don’t mean for it to sound rude but I’m pretty sure it _will_ sound that way no matter how I phrase it.” 

“Go ahead.” 

Somehow, you feel heavy. You feel like your posture is slouched because you have the world on your shoulders. It’s because there are things you want to do... revenge needs to be exacted. Yet it slips away. You don’t feel like you can reach out and grab it for yourself. Not without help. So, you wonder, “Do you think there was justice in the contracts you made with Spire mages? Was there justice in stealing their life?” 

“Life wasn’t _stolen_ and I do believe there was justice in it. For those who wished to obtain power in the hopes of inflicting harm, life was taken. They would have sought that power from elsewhere. So, I thought, why not _me_? Why not someone who could give them the illusion of power for their self-serving needs while exacting justice?” 

It watches patiently as you stare at it with those doleful eyes long after it has answered your question. Like this, you’re like a child again. It knows what you’re going to ask. It knows you’re looking for reassurance. Because although you know what you want, deep down, you’re still considering the opinions of the ones you love. You want so many things that seem to be mutually exclusive. Revenge, to fulfill your duty, and love. How can these things exist at once? 

Lips move a bit before any sound comes out. Clever eyes watch that stolen face closely, seeking the truth. “Then consider _me_ : I seek to obtain power in the hopes of inflicting harm. Should my life be taken as a consequence?” 

“Why do you wish to inflict harm?” The daemon queries lightly. It already knows the answer. 

“As recompense. One day, I’ll see to it that I get my pound of flesh. On that day, the Empire and all those who colluded with the emperor in the destruction of Insomnia will fall.” 

Yellow eyes flash. “Hm. Human language is interesting. Words hold many meanings. What you’ve described to me is not the senseless infliction of harm or the want to commit atrocities to satiate a desire for power. It’s retribution. I would like to see to it that you get justice for all that was taken from you; everything you’ve lost, everything your family line has lost, and everything you’ve yet to lose.” 

“Thank you.” You put your phone away, not quite catching on to those nuances the daemon previously mentioned. But the point has been made. Reassurance is given. The offer will be taken. “I’ll go with you to see the Oracle. I could go for a nightly stroll to clear my head.” 

A smile stretches those lips. “Thank you so much, (y/n).” 

It happens in Altissia. The greatest lie you’ll ever tell. 

You’ll pluck a card from the deck and hide it in your sleeve. You’ll make the ones you love into suffering fools. They’ll seek you out for comfort and you’ll shed false tears, wear a mask of empathy to hide your trickery. The world will be plunged into darkness but that card will remain tucked up your sleeve. Lives will be lost and you won’t bat an eye; playing the long game, waiting for the other player to finally make his move. 

An ugly lie for a pretty outcome.

* * *

You’re glad it’s not a cell. 

It’s a rather nice room, too. It’s large and impressive with gilded pieces of furniture that all seem to _have_ to have clawed feet. There’s a tidy bed with white sheets that hasn’t once been slept in. Everything is either white or gold except for the carmine curtains. The contrast makes the pop of color appear garish rather than stylish; like a random stain against all of that pristine white. 

So many things to think, so many possible outcomes, and yet all you can find yourself thinking is that you’re glad Accordo isn’t keeping Lady Lunafreya in a cell. On a knife’s edge, your mood dances. It teeters between polite reservation and savage fury. Since you heard of Talmudge’s untimely demise and your status as Arch-Mage, bestowed upon you quite generously by the emperor, you’ve been _this close_ to the edge. 

It makes you question your sanity. 

Noctis had his moods when Insomnia first fell but he’s been nearly unshakable; taking his revenge in each imperial base that’s felled and each imperial patrol that’s decimated. Same as Gladiolus. Same as the others. But you? Sacking bases has never been satisfying. It’s left you feeling as empty as you all leave those military outposts. It’s unsatisfying. Tastes like ash. Feels like you’re being cheated out of something greater somehow. 

This bloodlust has gone unnoticed for so very long. 

An unseemly thing, pushed off to the side so you can pursue more scholarly ventures, your desire for vengeance has gone unfulfilled. Yet all the while it’s lurked just beneath the surface, ready to lash out and attack anyone and anything that comes too close to the water’s edge. And First Secretary Claustra has lingered by the water’s edge since the moment she made it clear that she was liable to buckle under the Empire’s pressure. 

So, everyone is blissfully unaware of just how _lucky_ they are that Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret  isn’t being kept in a cell. 

Yellow eyes like hellfire watch you closely; the daemon can feel the rage radiating off of you like heat from a furnace. It’s almost painful to hold you so close to its heart- to feel that burning anger that has reawakened grief and stoked sorrow back to life. The energy around you hums with these emotions. It’s a volatile cocktail, one that the daemon knows all too well. One that the daemon burned with lifetimes ago. 

But it never expected to find it again in _you_. 

You’re too young to be this embittered, the daemon thinks. In its mind’s eye, you’re still but a child. That sweet-faced babe that it used to visit at night; a chubby hand would grab sinewy fingers in its fist. Sometimes, it sees you like that. It sees you how you used to be. Even as a child, though, there was something quite severe in you, like you were thoroughly jaded from the womb even as you played pranks and laughed at silly jokes. 

It’s in your eyes; things inherited from someone forgotten. The Spire cooks said you had an old soul and that they could see it in your eyes; wicked things that seemed as if they could see all. Unnerving coming from a child, really. Some of the students said you had dead eyes: Unblinking and unwavering. It’s the look you have on your face now as you gaze through the veil of shadow into the material realm. It's a look the daemon knows well. The austerity of one who was once a god. 

Wicked eyes dart around the darkened room. 

There, sitting in front of a vanity but not once looking into the mirror, is Lady Lunafreya. The pragmatic side of you, the one that’s well-versed in magic, has half a mind to step out of the shadows just to inform her of the dangers of being seated in front of a mirror in the darkness. But you’re here for a reason other than to scold the Oracle about the do’s and don’ts of black magic rituals and how to avoid an accidental invoking. 

Besides, there hasn’t been an accidental invoking in... Maybe _ever_? It’s hard to parse out fact from fiction with the anecdotes you were told in the Spire; anecdotes that were meant to scare you and other unruly students off of certain types of magic despite the Spire’s long history (though that history was only documented in the grimoire by _your_ ancestors) of summoning daemons; particularly the daemon that you’re currently rubbing elbows with. 

Said daemon has been very quiet and very still since it asked you to close your eyes in the hotel room before shedding Orion’s face and pulling you into the shadows. All around you were hushed voices yet your eyes remained screwed shut. The voices whispered and hissed; there were subdued screams that sounded far off; footsteps rushed to approach you. But you only opened your eyes when the daemon breathed in your ear, “We are here.” 

It keeps its grip firm on your shoulders, keeping you looking forward so you can’t see the myriad of faces at your back; the stolen souls of deceived mages. It keeps them from touching you, keeps its damned prisoners from grabbing blessed, living flesh. The daemon informs you, “The guards won’t be able to hear you, but I advise you to be cautious anyway. Now, go to her and I’ll follow.” 

Without further instruction, you step through the veil and immediately feel as if your hearing clears. You hadn’t noticed the constant din of the shadows- a bizarre humming of negative energy that can’t be found in this realm. And Lunafreya immediately senses your presence. The blonde turns her head quickly, expression cold, but the moment she spies you standing beside an armoire her face softens. 

It’s quiet as you two survey each other. Luna hadn’t expected to see you when she felt the energy in the room shift. She expected your daemon, since Gentiana _had_ warned her to be vigilant, as the daemon has become active as of late and has taken up its usual vices in earnest. The brunette had consoled the Oracle, however. She said that as long as the Mage was near, the daemon’s wicked nature would be subdued. And Luna can feel that it’s here. 

“Do you remember me?” You wonder. Blue eyes rove over the crystal in your staff, to the shadow that appears to move as if alive at your back, until finally looking back to your face. While she appraises you, you marvel at how composed she is, considering you just appeared from thin air in her room. You’re such a different person now than when you two first met all those years ago. It wouldn’t surprise you if she needed to see that staff to know it was you. 

In the moonlit room, you look a bit like a vision to Luna. Dark shadows spill across your face and yet your eyes remain vibrant, as if swallowing up all available light to glow preternaturally like the crystal in your staff. Slowly, she stands, and you take a few steps out of the shadow with muffled footsteps despite the marble floor. Instead of your Spire sweater, you wear your Crownsguard fatigue jacket over your white button-up. Like this, bathed in blue light, you look as otherworldly as you always should, being an Iovita. 

A smile graces Lunafreya’s face. Even when imprisoned, she has a smile for you. She always has. “Of course I do. It’s so good to see you again, (y/n).” 

Now you smile. “Do you know why I’m here, Lady Lunafreya?” 

Behind you, a creature of nightmares pulls itself out of the shadows that it was damned to inhabit many lifetimes ago. Tattered robes sway about its bony legs and strips of the rotted fabric cling to its emaciated torso. With the creature comes a foul, sweet stench but Lunafreya doesn’t so much as blink. She remembers seeing it in the trees when she visited you at the Spire. Something has changed in those unblinking eyes. A veil has lifted. 

"I see that you've changed the nature of the beast's heart,” she says not unkindly but there’s a sort of cold reservation in her voice. Because there’s sanity there in those unblinking eyes but Lunafreya knows that the creature has been making contracts with Spire mages; still stealing life and enchanting objects in return or whatever other sort of bargain is struck by some unassuming fool. 

That smile of yours falters as you glance back at the daemon who waits patiently by the armoire for your command. "I don't think they were all that bad to begin with. Lots of... misconceptions. But we're here to discuss important matters with you, Lady Lunafreya." 

_They_? 

The daemon’s crooked spine straightens a bit, or as much as it _can_ given the state of its decay. You referred to the creature as “they” and not “it.” And you said that “we’re” here to discuss things. Already by words alone you reveal the close nature of your relationship; reveal to the daemon that it has a relationship with you at all. It’s heartening. It makes the creature’s almost decimated pride swell. And to hear you defend its honor when the Oracle called it a beast? Today is a good day. 

“May I sit?” You ask, breaking the silence once more when Lunafreya doesn’t respond to your fallacious remark with regard to the daemon. 

“Of course, (y/n).” Luna gestures to two armchairs that look as though they should have been placed in front of a fireplace but instead rest rather awkwardly in front of a window. They’re a soft blue under the light of the uncovered window. Altissia glows with life beyond that glass pane. 

“What’s this matter that you wish to speak with me about?” Luna sounds as dignified as ever, though there’s a softness in her tone reserved for you. 

Once you’re settled on the chair (it looks far more comfortable than it really is), you glance at the daemon who stands dutifully beside you but address the Oracle, “As we all know, in a few days time you and Prince Noctis will commune with Leviathan. I’m here tonight to play my part as the Mage.” 

“What do you mean?” She asks but she already knows. Well, Luna doesn’t know all of the details of what you intend to do, but she’s always known that you would come to her when her end drew near. Even now, she can feel herself slipping away; day by day, her health wanes. And you made her a promise. The dutiful Mage always holds true to promises, even if the other party wants to back out. 

Back then, she knew it was a mistake to let you bend your knee to her. You’d taken her by surprise and in a moment of weakness she didn’t refuse you. Those binding Iovita contracts. Even then, the Oracle thought it was unfair but there was a fire in your eyes and the thing in the trees held its breath. From a young age, you ripped yourself apart; mutilated yourself to be the Mage for _everyone_. An impossible feat. She would’ve understood if you backed down. 

Yet here you are. 

One leg comes up to cross over the other and you sink back into the chair. Bobbing your foot up and down lazily, you remind the Oracle, “A long time ago, I promised to protect you. I swore myself to you, Lady Lunafreya. With your permission, I’d like to employ the aid of my friend,” your hand gestures toward the daemon in the darkness, “to mark you with a ward in order to ensure your safety and the safety of the line of the Oracles. This ward will make it so that we can find you if you’re in mortal danger.” 

“(y/n)-” 

You recognize in her tone hesitance to be quickly followed by rejection. You’ve heard it before, time and time again. You’ll hear it again in the future, time and time again. Though you’ve come to terms rather quickly with receiving aid from a fallen creature, not everyone is so willing to be indebted to the thing that lurks in the shadows. “My lady, allow me to fulfill my duty. Though my first duty is to my king, I won’t leave you unprotected. Honor dictates that I _at least_ do this much since I can’t be by your side.” 

She's at a disadvantage, cornered by two charismatic creatures, one of whom she's always been just the slightest bit taken with. You're a far cry from that mageling with stars in their eyes and a head full of fantasies. Though you still have a rather romantic spirit, there's a cold pragmatism in you. It had been there when she first met you but now it almost seems to overshadow your fanciful nature. You're no longer a child. You've grown so much. Perhaps too much too soon. 

But she doesn't doubt your intentions for wanting to protect her. And why should she let any misgivings she has of the creature you've allowed to become a part of you prevent her from letting you fulfill your duty? You're a mage of honor and she won't make you an oath breaker. Besides, Lunafreya knows that when she meets her end it won't be by your daemon's hand. Though a wretched thing, it's too loyal by far to betray you in such a way. Even now, it won't touch her unless you say so. 

For some reason, she finds herself wondering if it's always been that way with you; only acting to do the bidding of its dear mage.  Lunafreya sighs and stands. The Oracle crosses the short distance from the chairs to the window.  Dressed in white, she looks like a specter in the moonlight, just like she did all those years ago. But she’s ever so close to really becoming one. The daemon senses it, can taste death in the air. "All right.” Tired blue eyes stare out at nothing in particular. She’s not losing anything from this deal. But she’s acutely aware of who _is_. “If it will put you at ease, (y/n), I'll agree to this." 

Relief washes over you and you sink further into the chair a moment before standing and turning to address the daemon. "Go on. Do your incantation or whatever." 

Yellow eyes rove over your face. "No incantation is necessary. Only intent." 

“Huh.” You frown contemplatively and nod your head, a bit shocked that this ward is like any other magic though you feel like you shouldn’t be. It just seems a bit... different? Well, more like “new.” You assumed that this new magic would function differently than the magic you’re accustomed to. But it’s as ancient as everything else you’ve done. With a faint smile you add, "That's good to know I guess." 

"You guess?” The daemon scoffs. “I am like a fount of knowledge to you. You should _savor_ every word I tell you, not listen with one ear." 

Eyes roll dramatically to match that offended scoff. " _Puh-lease_. You can lecture me later. Let’s do this and be done with it. I feel like we’ve been pushing our luck already by lingering." Your attention is returned to Lady Lunafreya, who has watched you from the window as you held a conversation with an unspeaking thing. “Are you ready, my lady?” 

Her brow puckers a moment at your formal way of speaking before she nods her head and affirms, “Yes.” 

A silver tongue should never be underestimated, least of all yours. In the past it has got you extra sweets and spared you harsh reprimands. It's a weapon that's been finely and carefully sharpened over the years. Such a gradual build up. Such an obvious indicator of who you most admired while you were growing up. But even Ardyn will be impressed when he finds out all you've done with your little weapon. 

From convincing cooks to give you sweets to convincing the Oracle to be marked by the wretched one. From convincing the Oracle to be marked with a benign ward to convincing your enemies to give you their souls. Everything you do is with consent. Perhaps that's what makes people really and truly fear you to their core? Because there's the chancellor's _coercion_ and then there's the Archon's _request_. 

While people can blame their choices on their fear of Ardyn's wrath, they have no one to blame but themselves when you make your requests with your cold eyes and patient smiles. "Would you please?" Hardly a threat and you’ll never harm those who deny you. You'll have the reputation of a polite destroyer of men. Offering power for souls, offering what the recipient of your power believes to be an equal exchange. 

There are no excuses for the ones who do business with the Archon; with the mage who walks in shadow and traps daemons in their crystal; using some and forcing others' souls to ascend. 

So, today is just another mark on the grave you've dug for yourself; borne from a sense of duty and from a childhood crush. Your fate is sealed over and over again with every well-intentioned choice you and the daemon make. Those spindly fingers press against Luna's pale forehead and the Oracle is nearly overcome with a sense of dread. It squeezes her heart and makes her eyes fly to you, a sudden feeling to protect you rearing up from nowhere. 

Luna senses your end long before it comes. And when you pull her out of the ether and your face  is the first thing she sees, she knows she'll mourn you even as you walk in the realm of the living. Because she knows you'll never really belong here and you won't get to stay for too long- at least, not as long as Lunafreya Nox Fleuret would like and not in the _way_ she’d like. It’s this thought that makes her chest tighten, makes it harder for her to breathe. 

"How do you feel?" You ask. She’s pulled back into reality by the feeling of your hand on her shoulder. You feel so warm and that finger had been like ice against her skin. You’ll feel that way soon. Too soon. 

Words of warning bubble up in her chest but they’re stifled by the look in your eyes. Luna knows. One look at you and she knows that you’ll be undone by your _own_ hand. It’s not the daemon that does it; it’ll just be the thing that will bring you back again and again and _again_ even if letting you die would be a mercy. You’ll do the bulk of the damage to yourself. And nothing anyone can say or do will make you or the daemon stop the cycle of misery. 

There are unshed tears in her eyes but you don't see them in the limited light. Her hand reaches up to close around yours. "I'm fine, (y/n)." 

The soft intonation of her voice makes your head cock to the side like a dog that’s just heard something peculiar. It’s the sound of loss. Before you can say anything, the daemon hastily informs you, head turning stiffly to the side to watch the door, "The hour draws to a close." 

“I wish I could stay longer and keep you company, but we have to go now.” You smile and wink at Luna, carefully removing your hand from hers. Her hand hovers where she held yours a moment before dropping to her side. "Don't worry. Be seeing you." 

All too soon, you’re gone; a running theme. Blue eyes watch you disappear back into the shadows. Keen ears hear the hushed wails that you only hear as a dull din as those writhing shadows accept you. She stands alone in the darkened room, skin still buzzing from where the daemon touched her, your fate still a bitter thing in her mouth. Those blue eyes slowly close and Lunafreya whispers, “And I you.” 

Stepping out into an alley in Altissia, you wait for the daemon to put on Orion’s skin before the two of you walk aimlessly through the streets. A group text from the guys is answered briefly before you silence your phone and shove it in your pocket. A warm hand grabs yours, fingers threading between your fingers. “Thank you.” The first words are from you, softly spoken as you pass a gondola, almost washed out by the sound of your footsteps against the cobblestones. 

“It was my pleasure.” The daemon squeezes your hand. “We should see the brother. He’s of the Oracle line, as well.” 

“Hm?” That gives you pause even as you stop at a food stall and fork over a bit of money for cotton candy. The daemon gripes at you about eating nutritious food and not straight-up sugar (“You might as well empty a bag of sugar straight into your gullet, (y/n).”). Its scolding is ignored as the two of you continue off to nowhere in particular while you pick the conversation back up, “You mean Ravus?” 

Pink lips twitch. “No, the other one. _Yes_ , Ravus.” 

That joke is ignored in order for you to point out the obvious. “You do realize he’s with the Empire, right? And not too long ago, he tried to turn Noct into a kabob and he slam-dunked Gladio against the Regalia. I highly doubt he’ll be tripping all over himself to see _me_.” 

“I may be restricted to the realm of shadow but I’m _not_ blind. Ravus Nox Fleuret.” The daemon laughs after it says his name, like it just told a lighthearted joke. “The true ruler of Tenebrae, the  man with the blood of the Oracle in his veins, is _not_ made of stone. His heart doesn’t belong to the Empire. It belongs with his sister and his sister is one of _your_ dearest allies. Though he resents your king, he can be an ally to you, (y/n).” 

Pink fluff is tossed into your mouth where it immediately melts on your tongue. “Except he’s allied with Ardyn.” 

“Ardyn has no true allies,” the daemon responds coldly. 

“Perhaps,” you murmur, cotton candy suddenly not tasting quite so sweet. “But back to Lady Lunafreya. You’ll be keeping an eye on her when Leviathan comes, right?" Though a weight has lifted from your conscience, you'd like to hear again that with your and the daemon's combined effort, you can protect her. 

Arms swing by the daemon’s side before coming on the upward momentum to pluck a piece of cotton candy off of the fluff ball. The spun sugar is popped into the daemon’s mouth and the creatures hums. “I already said I would but I’ll say it again and again if only to put you at ease,” the daemon confirms. “But her life is dwindling. She’s on the cusp already.” 

“What?” Feet freeze to the ground. You’re stunned. Were you really so enamored by the sight of her that you didn't really look at her? Or was it the lighting? Though Ravus had laid the blame for Luna’s peril at Noct’s feet, you hadn’t realized how far gone she was. Noct probably doesn’t even know. On the _cusp_? The idea makes fear grip your stomach and twist it painfully. It’s almost funny. Such a crippling fear of death for others and yet you’ll dance with death at every turn. 

But it’s your unwillingness to let the ones you love die that will ultimately kill you. 

A warm hand pats your back and guides you onward. You’re headed to the hotel, you realize. "If she should die before her time comes naturally, I’ll know and I’ll go to her. This I swear to you.” 

“Can you do anything about her health in the meantime?” You ask, sounding desperate as you pull the daemon with you off to the side of the walkway leading to the hotel. The two of you stand beside a closed stall that sells paintings in daytime. Right now, you aren’t ready for this conversation to end. It’s obvious to you that the daemon wants to put these events to bed and literally put you to bed as well. 

From beneath dark lashes, those equally dark eyes peer at you. The daemon marvels... You really are a hero, aren’t you? Or at least you want to be one. Still so corrupt though it thinks it’s nearly whole again, it doesn’t recognize the danger in that mindset. A self-sacrificing mentor begets a self-sacrificing mentee. “Your bonding might aid her,” the daemon admits without guile. “While it drains the Kings and the Oracles to commune with the Astrals, no such thing happens to an Iovita mage.” 

That sudden statement throws you off. “What do you mean by that? My ancestors have _never_ communed with the Astrals. That’s not our right.” 

Not your _right_? The last bit of cotton candy is taken by a creature that can’t even properly eat. Pink sugar is rolled between pale fingers until it’s nothing but a small, sticky ball. The daemon remembers what it was like to be you: Powerful and loved. It remembers how quickly it became feared and hated in the pursuit of salvation for those it loved. How it all would’ve been _worth it_ if only it had succeeded. Over and over, it rolls that ball of pink sugar between its fingers. 

“Your ancestors used to speak freely with the Astrals without repercussion. Perhaps over the years your family strayed from their intended purpose? Have you ever asked yourself why creatures so powerful would simply stand by while the world suffered? You’re already doing _far more_ than  your predecessors ever did- intervening where they wouldn’t dare and speaking when they would keep quiet.” The pink ball is flicked off into the walkway where it skitters across stone before falling into water. “Food for thought. You should go now.” 

And you do go. 

With a troubled mind you somehow find your way back into the hotel room where the guys all eagerly await, some more obvious about it than others. You’re asked if you went on a date given your attire and you joke that you needed to impress a lovely woman. All the while, you’re stuck in your own head. An owl flies up to perch on the balcony’s railing, yellow eyes on you, and you step outside. Visions of Ramuh and Titan swirl in your mind’s eye as you stare at the starry sky and you wonder... 


	51. In Want of Closure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally meant to be a four-part thing with each part designated for one guy, but I got lazy and condensed it into one ficlet with the obvious choice for an inquisitor since the whole basis of y'all lying about everything isn't specific to romance routes. Takes place directly after you arrive in Altissia in the main fic.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, OOC Galore, Intense Tense Flippage, Have Some Angst with Your Angst, Iggy Ain't Havin' That Shit, Morality is Gray, Lies Lies Lies

**In Want of Closure**

When everything is settled with Lady Lunafreya, you find that you're quite  _un_ settled.

It was a whirlwind- a quick job and you can’t even be sure of its outcome. Will the ward work? How will it work? Does it have to be nighttime for the daemon to even be of any use or is just the smallest shadow enough for it to aid the Oracle? An over-thinker like yourself can formulate a litany of ways that things can go south. And you do.  _Of course_  you do. You imagine a million ways that you can fail Luna.

Perhaps it would’ve been better if you didn’t even do anything? Because, as awful as that sounds, you’ve set yourself up for days of agony leading up to Leviathan’s trial. What if? What if?  _What if_? You’ll even start to wear down the daemon’s seemingly endless patience. But right from the outset, right after you get back from that clandestine meeting, Ignis Scientia knows that something is amiss.

Green eyes watch the mage on the balcony. Watch as you smooth down the tawny feathers of an owl that isn’t exactly an owl. Through the doors, he can hear you speaking to your familiar. The others went out in search of food when you all sat down to order room service only to discover that such a service isn’t 24-hours but adheres to a very strict time-frame. That was a disappointment, to say the least.

Under normal circumstances, Iggy would’ve gone with everyone and tugged you along by the sleeve of your sweater even if you complained about wanting to stay in. But he stays back with you and doesn’t disturb you because you seemed  _quite_  disturbed when you got back from wherever you ran off to. No one can ever be too sure of exactly what it is the mage gets up to all on their lonesome. Ignis has an inkling that Noctis knows part of it.

Though a habitual liar to the nth degree, you tend to reveal more to Noctis than to anyone else, no matter how close you may be to the others. Does it hurt the guys? Yes and no. They all figure you have your reasons and trust you enough to believe that if you were keeping some great big secret, it wouldn’t be anything that would harm them. However, there’s the fear that your secrets will harm  _you_. Such is the very typical nature of secrets, after all.

Anyway, Iggy is positive that you’ve revealed some facet of whatever secret (or  _secrets_ ) you have to Noct because the raven-haired royal doesn’t ever seem quite as troubled as the rest of the guys when you run off somewhere or act all dodgy when questioned. This obvious favoritism of yours is… understandable. You’re sworn to Noctis, after all. Though sometimes the way you’re so sweet on him can make tempers flare.

But today is different. When Noct asked where you went once you returned, you didn’t meet his eye as you said in your usual charming yet evasive manner, “Somewhere.” The lack of eye contact is what made Iggy stay behind. Noct pretended not to be offended and the others acted as if they didn’t notice, but Ignis can’t find it in himself to pretend that nothing is amiss. There’s a threshold for his tolerance of your bullshit and you’ve just surpassed it.

Atop a small, circular coffee table sits a pot of coffee and two simple cups. The brunet arranges the cups neatly and pours hot black coffee into the pristine white porcelain. The cups clink against their saucers and the owl’s head swivels around, golden eyes fixating on the actions of your fellow advisor. Beside the owl, taking in the cool night air, you shoot your companion a puzzled look and question, “What’s wrong?”

“It would seem that your friend is preparing for an inquisition,” the daemon in avian form replies lightly. There’s a tinge of amusement in that statement. The daemon is ever so chuffed by the tactician who is more soft-hearted than strict. It favors his sometimes philosophical chats with you, enjoying the sound of his voice. “Do remember that meetings between the Oracle and the Mage are privy to no one but those involved, friend or not.”

A useless reminder. Sort of feels like micromanagement at this point, considering you grew up on bedtime stories of the pacts between the Mages and the Oracles- pacts that you never thought you’d contribute to, given your confined upbringing. Still, you nod your head and pretend to be pleasantly surprised when Iggy opens the door behind you to politely call you in for “a spot of coffee and a brief chat.”

A prim and proper gentleman, Ignis doesn’t immediately set about grilling you when you settle down onto a black leather armchair across from him and delicately sip your coffee. Oh, no. He knows how to play the waiting game. It’s only after you’re halfway done with your coffee and made comfortable by planning out tomorrow’s schedule that he asks, “Where were you tonight, really?”

“Ignis...” His name is said yet you don’t look him in the eye, instead opting to gaze down into your cup. The coffee is almost gone, now a pretty dark brown with that white porcelain visible at the bottom along with the maker’s mark in a rich royal blue. This was to be expected. Hell, the daemon prepared you for it and yet all the while as you planned which locales to visit, you didn’t plan how you would evade this inevitable inquiry.

Though practically a liar by trade, you’re somehow still so terrible at it when confronted by Ignis.

“I know I don’t usually impose on you, but at the very least you must be honest with Noctis,” Ignis gently scolds when you continue to say nothing after saying his name. “I know that you tell him far more than you do anyone else.”

There’s that little flare of a temper. The guys have all snapped just a  _bit_  at you for that bizarre habit of only divulging the truth to your future king. It makes you sigh. The porcelain is nice and smooth beneath the tip of your forefinger. “When I tell Noct the truth, it’s because whatever secret I was keeping was mine alone to reveal. Secrets between multiple people, however, aren’t things that I take quite as lightly.”

“You were with someone tonight?” Ignis questions, eagerly latching onto the information you’ve given him because you so rarely give him anything. A trick of the trade, some might say: The damnably closed lips of the king’s arcane advisor. Well, ever since that position started being filled by loyal Iovitas, that is.

“Yes and that’s all I’ll say to you on the matter.” Now you look at him, expression reserved. “It doesn’t involve anyone else and it’s  _separate_  from my duty to Noctis. You all can have your own secrets- I won’t try and pry them from you be it something benign or something a bit more risqué. Like my ancestor Florus discovered, some truths are too terrible to reveal. But if one  _must_  reveal them, one ought to time things carefully.”

Ignis doesn’t like your chosen adjective. Terrible? Are you hiding some terrible truths? And he feels like he must be reading too much into your words, but at the same time he feels as if you might have slipped up by utilizing the plural form so frequently.  _Truth_ _s_? Here he was, wanting to do a quick verbal slap on the wrist for skulking off tonight, and he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Or perhaps it’s you who has done the biting.

“Who is this Florus and what’s this vague example that you’re giving me in lieu of honesty?”

Well, that kinda hurt if you’re being totally honest with yourself. Iggy’s sharp zingers usually do when you’re on the wrong side of them. Gods, and the way he still holds his cup in such a lofty manner makes you wonder if he’s about to throw his damn coffee in your face after saying that. In your usual shifty fashion, you choose to only answer the question that lies on the surface, ignoring the bigger picture. “A self-titled seer.”

“Was he actually a seer?” This misdirection? It’s his usual method of working people for information, particularly people like yourself who duck and dodge like they’re boxing rather than talking. His coffee has already gone tepid. Normally, he’d politely ask you to reheat it since he, like everyone else, has grown accustomed to your casual magic. However, he doesn’t want to dismantle the serious atmosphere. The brunet purses his lips and sips his lukewarm coffee. At least his bitter expression adds to that oh so important atmosphere.

“Considering he was often drunk out of his mind, I’m not sure,” you answer at great length, knowing Iggy’s game but not having a viable out. What are you gonna do? Just get up and leave the room? Food is on the way and that’d be rude as well as highly suspicious. Your pal already knows you’re keeping a secret. You don’t need to go making him think it’s something along the lines of criminal activity, so you play along right into his waiting hand.

“And how does Florus relate to your current situation?”

You’ve already mostly been defeated but you’re still kicking. ‘Cause any hint you give this guy? You can bet your cute butt it’ll all be ran through various search engines and a library when you all happen to stumble across one. Give him a line of poetry and he’ll look up its origins, meanings, and use in history in the hopes of discovering your use for employing it. So, you’ve already shot yourself in the foot by throwing Florus’ name out there.

Because Florus the Seer? There was a popular rumor about who his father was. Rumor had it that his father was of the Oracle line, which was why Florus was able to have such vivid visions. It wasn’t true, of course, but you’re certain Iggy is bound to find that in the research he’s sure to do. And it isn’t too much of a stretch of the imagination that he might connect the dots and realize you were seeing  _someone_  of the Oracle line tonight.

Are you highly paranoid? Yes but not in this instance. Ignis is just  _that_ thorough.

You cough into the crook of your elbow. "Because the present was far too painful for him, what with the visions and all, and because he feared the future and all that he believed it held, Florus wouldn't stop living in the past. Some say he's still there to this very day." You add that last bit like the ending of a campfire horror story. You almost wiggle your fingers at Iggy like a little ghoul.

One finely arched eyebrow rises. “From some of the many miraculous feats your family has performed, I’m guessing that’s not quite a figure of speech.”

Now it’s  _your_  turn to do some last minute misdirection in the hopes of throwing Iggy off the trail by giving very valid reasons for why you’d use Florus as your lying scapegoat analogy. ‘Cause you  _do_  have a valid reason… the Oracle rumor was just an unfortunate oversight on your part. Gods, you hope that rumor has faded into obscurity by now. But with the amount of freakin’ _blogs_  people dedicate to your damn ancestors…?

“Apparently when he died of alcohol poisoning he… astral projected through time? I’m not sure. His successor didn’t explain it well so I skipped over it and didn’t think about it until now. My point for using Florus as an example- because I  _do_  have a point- was that he prophesied many things that would’ve made him seem batshit if he’d revealed them directly after he had them. But, as events unfolded that bolstered the veracity of his visions, then and only then did he choose to reveal them.” You make finger guns at Iggy. “ _Timing_.”

The bespectacled brunet isn’t all that amused by your inappropriate humor, given the topic of discussion. But what can you say? Inappropriate humor is your schtick. From the macabre to the mundane, you can make a joke of anything to rid yourself of tension. Hell, you even make a joke of your own family grimoire when you get too stressed. And your ancestors make it  _so_  easy. The one thing you'll never get used to is how the passages in the grimoire transition.

"Yeah, so, that other guy got his head chopped off. Yikes. Anyway..."

"My predecessor disappeared mysteriously and no one has seen him in, like, ten years... Dear, diary..."

Not exactly like the above, of course, but that's what they boil down to: "Hey, I'm so-and-so! My predecessor is hella dead! Anyway, I’m writing in here ‘cause I just discovered this dope ass spell…" Untimely demise is commonplace for your ancestors, judging by those “cheerful” transitions. But if it's so common, then does that make every Iovita death timely? Are you only supposed to live until your forties, if you’re lucky?

But back to Florus. Because he slept all the time in a nearly constant drunken stupor, he was able to control his astral projection and do it on command. Upon his death, he, in a very clumsy sense, “escaped” death in order to go back to happier times. At least that’s what his successor said. You aren’t really sure. His successor was pretty distraught so you don’t know how much water those claims hold. Doesn’t stop you from using him as an example, though.

“So, in time, you’ll reveal your secrets?” Ignis asks flatly, disturbing your humor-grimoire-Florus tangent.

You nervously scuff your boots against the crimson rug that the coffee table rests on, much to Iggy’s irritation. “Yes. Otherwise, you’ll probably all think I’m insane. Even when I  _burn_  to reveal everything in a moment of weakness, I think of how much damage the truth might cause if I reveal it too soon.” It’s said like a joke even though it’s far from it.

This isn’t a rabbit hole you want to jump down again, but you’d much rather reveal your secrets in stages. For instance,  _after_  you utilize bonding to aid Noctis,  _then_  it would be a good idea to tell everyone that you practiced such magic by binding daemon souls to you. If you just tell them all now that you’re sticking daemon souls to you like sticking notes on a cork board with no obtained “greater good” to show for it, it likely won’t go down well.

Not a night has gone by where you haven’t imagined some great blow-out with dramatic lectures and tearful apologies. Guilt is such a weighty thing. But your want of closure can’t be allowed to force your hand and make you reveal everything too soon. All of this? Every sleepless night and stolen soul is done with Noct’s safety in mind. He’d hate it if he  _really_  knew all of the dirty details.

And if you reveal things too soon, before you can enact your plan? The paranoid side of you fears that just saying your plan aloud will make it known to Ardyn. You still don’t know what his end-game is with getting involved in Noctis’ pursuit of his birthright. The more helpful he is, the more your suspicion grows. Because, yes, your dear Uncle Ary was helpful with _you_  but he- Dare you say it?-  _liked_  you and you’ve always had the feeling that he hated the Kings.

It was in the way his shoulders would square when you’d go on and on about how you looked forward to leaving the Spire’s walls to enter Noctis’ service. It was in the way he spat venom at you for saying such things. It was in the way he likened you and the Mages to livestock and Noctis and the Kings to butchers. So his sudden change of heart has your guard raised. And you’re content with knowing that the others don’t trust him, either.

Which leads into another lie:  _Ardyn_. You tell yourself that as long as no one is taken in by his charms, you don’t need to reveal your history with him. Don’t need to tell anyone that he used to be your hero and your childhood best friend. Don’t need to tell anyone that you fashioned yourself after him before you knew any better.  _That_  secret? Even after the Ardyn threat is overcome (whatever that threat may be) you don’t think you’ll reveal your secret shame.

But with regard to Lunafreya? That’s an old rite that you  _can’t_  break. These meetings between Mage and Oracle stay strictly between the Mages and the Oracles. You could tell, say, Ravus Nox Fleuret the details of your meeting with Lunafreya purely because  _he’s_  of the Oracle line. But Ignis, Gladiolus, and Prompto have no such sway, even if you care for them dearly. Noctis, being of the line of the Kings, could force the matter, however. Though he never will.

“This all sounds quite ominous, (y/n). Forgive me for not being put at ease by your promises for some future truth.” And you understand. You really, really do. But you’d foolishly hoped for a more understanding or satisfied response. Foolishly hoped for some sort of validation in return for absolutely nothing. You don’t know how to respond. Sensing your tumult, Ignis furrows his brow. “(y/n)?”

This isn’t fair and you know it. It’s never been fair. Fear and paranoia are what force you to keep your allies in the dark- they’re what you use as excuses for this behavior. It’s what makes your friends doubt if you trust them as much as they trust you. Because if you trusted them, why would you lie to them? What have they been doing wrong all this time for you to not open up completely with them? It’s a haunting question that goes unanswered.

"When all is said and done, just know that I never lied to hurt you. Actually, that might hurt more. I know it does for me. I told myself- no, I  _tell_  myself, still, that the pain will all be worth it in the end. To not be a burden, to not put any of you at risk by knowing things that enemies might like to tear from you... My only consolation is that in the end, everything we've endured will be worth it. We all make our sacrifices in our own way."

Dread. That’s all he feels right now. Your words, spoken softly and with exhaustion so very evident in your eyes, fills Ignis with dread. That self-sacrificing nature of yours? It was something the brunet caught on to very early on, being a self-sacrificer himself. But in you? It’s too intense. It’s dangerous. Ignis leans forward in his chair, sets his cup down on the table. "And your way is to suffer in silence." It’s a statement, not a question.

You wink. "The Iovita way."

"Alone.” That word almost sounds like a curse with the way he says it. The tactician is so very frustrated with you. How many times will you slap away a helping hand? “Is that really what you want?"

“And there’s the rub. There’s always been a difference between what I  _want_  and what I  _need_  to do. I’ve always struggled to align my wants with my needs. The magisters used to say I was a selfish child in that way.” You sip your coffee. It’s almost gone. "While I suffer in silence, would it be too much to ask you to silently support me? Even if you can't quite discern what I'm doing? Even if what I'm doing looks so very, very ugly?"

"That sounds rather sinister." His lack of a direct response stings. But you understand. His first loyalty is to Noctis, not you. And the same can be said of you. It’s something that you all understand; you, Ignis, Gladiolus, and even Prompto. You all _know_  this. Sometimes it can be a point of contention if one of you starts weighing Noct’s well-being much heavier against someone else’s.

“ _But hurt feelings aren’t enough to shirk duty._ ”

With that in mind, you smile into your shallow coffee. "I'm glad we had this talk. You've been very good to me, Ignis. You all have. Always know that I'll remember that. And remember that it's good to look back sometimes- to look back on the good times. Don't let that talk of my ancestor trick you into thinking I'm sour on sentimentality.” At the sight of his sober expression, you joke, “Just don’t astral project back in time or any bullshit like that, all right?"

“I’ll try to refrain from doing so.”

“Feel free to tell the others about this chat, by the way. With how you all like to worry about me, I already figured you might. I know you’re probably dying to, you little gossip,” you tease with an evil grin- your signature grin. “You have my permission.”

He's disquieted by your chat but you’re interrupted by laughter and food. When what you do from the chancellor’s shadow looks so very, very ugly, Ignis has a hard time looking back. But he eventually does and he comes back to this moment with you: Talking over coffee in Altissia; your ponderous expression and lighthearted ribbing all for  _his_  benefit. And then Ignis Scientia realizes that you were slowly making yourself into a monster for  _everyone’s_  benefit.

When he talks about this discussion with you to the others and he tells them in as vivid detail as he can recall about the expressions you made and how you behaved, looking back doesn’t feel quite as good as you made it out. Because the memory of how their dear friend used to be and the knowledge of what you were doing the whole time you were together only stirs up regret. “What if I had stopped them? Could I have done something different?” They wonder.

Noctis feels as if he did it to you himself; he blames himself for the repercussions of your spell. Prompto thinks he didn’t love you enough; that he didn’t make it known to you just how much you meant to him and everyone else. Gladiolus thinks he was too hard on you; that all of his talk about being strong enough for Noct was what pushed you to take such drastic action. And Ignis? The one who had that foreboding talk with you? He damns himself over and over for not pushing it, for not demanding to know what you were doing.

Looking back brings no one closure.


	52. Noctis: Morning Breath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This occurs after your blowout and vaguely touches on some sort of resolution for the forced engagement. Nothing but fluff and mild angst. Noct's route is definitely the least happy until closer to the end, tho. What an appealing title for this though, huh?
> 
> Also, I hate that I have to say this, but I'd really appreciate if y'all didn't hassle me about how long it takes me to update stuff. I have other obligations and writing fanfic doesn't pay the bills. And tbh, catty or snarky comments don't get me typing any faster or magically free up my schedule for me to write. Thanks.
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Awkward Relationship Talk, Shame Burns, Asshole Cactuars, Evasive Mages, Bashful Royals, A Near Disaster of a Kiss, Kinda Sub!Noct, Sorry If That Isn’t Your Cuppa But Them’s The Breaks When Someone Else Is Writing, Hopefully It’s Still Okay

**Morning Breath**

Noctis never anticipated Luna’s response. Sending that picture with nary a word or explanation? He thought she would be irritated with his childish antics and wouldn’t have blamed her. He wasn’t prepared for the response of that older sister figure; the one he found and always cherished in the Oracle. Even when they were both so young, he sought her counsel. Noctis supposes he  _should’ve_  expected that Luna would don that counselor hat for him once more. The prince doesn’t know that she’s worn it for you, too, once upon a time- a long, long time ago.

One meeting and she knew your heart. Gazing down into that open face, lit up like a little ghost in the moonlight, Lunafreya knew that you were and always would be good. No matter how things might turn out. No matter what manner of creatures sink their hooks into you and threaten to tear you to pieces. No matter what you may say or do for the world to see and judge unfairly. You’re  _good_. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret knows it to be true and smiles when she finally gets to see that face all grown up and as impish as ever.

She’s grateful- thrilled, even- to know that Noctis has another stalwart companion by his side. And she tells him as much. And he honestly doesn’t know why that baffles him. Perhaps it’s because Luna could see so much in a photo? You’re referred to as a “lifelong companion” and Lunafreya adds just a hint of her signature sternness to say that she trusts Noctis will be as faithful to you as you are to him. It’s oddly foreboding but Noct is too relieved by the fact that he  _didn’t_  hurt his childhood friend to really sit in the uncomfortable feeling that her words stir up.

To the royal who has subconsciously put you up on a precariously high pedestal, he can’t fathom what you might do to test the limits of his faith in you.

Something so serious and sobering (considering your increasingly secretive nature now that you’ve got that funny little familiar hanging around) is brushed aside in favor of  _your feelings_. Because the first thing Noct thinks after he can breathe easy knowing Luna didn’t put much weight behind a marriage arranged by the Empire, is that you have to know. He’d asked you to wait for him and you’d said you would. Noct doesn’t want you to have to wait any longer than necessary.

It’s a selfish motivation, too. Not wholly altruistic since the royal is a glutton for your attention and affection.

Ever since his awkward confession in that dusty old bookstore in Lestallum, your interactions with him have continued to be politely restrained. Foolishly, Noct had hoped you’d act on some of your more passionate impulses or that you’d have more “slip ups” of affection (can’t blame a guy for wanting another “accidental” kiss involving pastries), but he’s understood your reservations. Even before you knew that he returned your feelings, your conscience was on Lunafreya and that unfortunate bit of imperial-grade imposition.

Noct hastily writes his response, nervous of prying eyes though it’s deliriously early for the royal: Five in the morning with darkness still lingering and orange halos surrounding street lights. Is Luna joining forces with Specs to get the raven-haired man to start getting up in a timely manner? Who knew the sound of little dog claws on a motel door was a surefire way to rouse him? It works better than any cellphone alarm. Maybe even better than his  _favorite_  morning alarm: You.

Big, attentive eyes peer up at Noct as he crouches, thigh turned into a makeshift table to balance the book at the expense of his admittedly already sloppy handwriting. The earliest of risers (those being you and Gladiolus) were already gone when Noctis jolted awake at Umbra’s morning call. Soon, Ignis will wake up followed shortly by Prompto. They’ll certainly be surprised to see their drowsy pal awake and actually lucid. With a snap, the journal is closed and the dark dog gets a rub on the head.

Umbra is sent off with a stoic promise of safety written between those pages.

Noctis always has to be _too_ cool, acting like he can save everyone and everything by sheer willpower alone. He’d even sacrifice himself for the world if it was asked of him, for the sake of his friends. Little does he know that the mage he’s fallen for is far more hardheaded than he. Far more indignant when it comes to matters of justice and equality. “Ultimate sacrifice,” especially the singular kind, is something to be scoffed at and treated with derision,  _not_  embraced or celebrated. So says the unmoved arcane advisor.

“What’s fair in such a sacrifice?” You’ll ask far too coldly when a nightmare threatens to become reality. Even so frail with the toll dark magic takes on your body, you’ll still have a fire burning hot enough inside of you to rage, “Are  _you_  the only one who enjoys living on this godsforsaken planet? If I’d known how you’d jump at the idea of unequal exchanges, I’d have had you pay for all my meals when you were still around.”

But today, in the present, isn’t the time for tears or vitriol.

Noct needs to find you and the only thing to do is ask around since you could be _anywhere_. The sight of Choco Jr. parked behind the Regalia tells him that you can’t have gone far. As it turns out, the motel owner saw you head into the desert of Longwythe Peak, and Noct figures you’re probably in search of cactuar needles. Hell, you wouldn’t stop trying to hassle everyone into picking up the cactuar bounty yesterday but nobody was fool enough to risk grave injury for a couple of thousand gil.

Honestly, it’s like you purposefully cut Noct’s work out for him. You’re always going out in search of all manner of beast if your old grimoire tells of some useful spell that their parts can be used in. First necromancers and now cactuars. Noctis can’t quite tell if the creatures are going in descending or ascending order of lethality. Maybe ascending? Stumbling across a cactuar can definitely feel worse than getting jumped by a necromancer. The young man feels like you’re trying to age him by a decade as he treks through the desert.

While he  _has_  time, he thinks about how he’s going to broach the subject of his nullified pseudo-engagement with you. Always the over-thinker. Probably not a good trait to embrace when wandering the wilderness, but Noctis’ social ineptitude typically requires the playing out of at least a dozen hypothetical scenarios in his head. And considering the lingering emotional scars left from when he first botched bringing up the topic of his engagement? Noct wants to make damn well sure he has the right words. If not for his sake, then at least for yours.

He tells himself that he owes you that much. The last thing Noctis wants to do is hurt you.

Sand and dirt gets kicked up in a gale, swirling around languidly and prompting Noct to pull his shirt up over his mouth and nose. Steely blue eyes water, darting around in vain to find a spot of muted, dusky lavender in a sea of browns and yellows. Just when he’s about to whip out his phone and call you, he hears an aggravated, “Please! I’m begging here on my hands and knees!” Footsteps quicken, hastening to follow that call around a rock formation. Noctis shortly finds you crouched before a reclined, lazy looking cactuar.

At first he thinks you’ve been injured, but as he sneaks closer he hears desperate pleas that  _aren’t_  for your life.

“Just one needle,” you whine, hands outstretched with what looks to be a plastic bowl full of water as you beg, “I only need  _one_. C’mon. This is a really good trade! A trade of a lifetime! This area historically goes through bad droughts and I have this lovely,  _endless_  bowl of water. Even you can’t survive longer than two years, on average, without water. I’m a mage of my word, I swear it’s not just a regular bowl that’ll go dry the second I leave. With this, you won’t have to go near any pesky human settlements to get your fix.”

Blue eyes blink rapidly. The cactuar keeps its vacant face pointed in your direction, head propped up on one arm. The atmosphere is tense as you await the creature’s response. Its free arm moves and you hold your breath. The arm extends a bit toward you, your face lights up, and then the cactuar reaches back and scratches its butt. Teeth bite down on your lower lip as you barely refrain from snarling at the prickly peddler of pins. Water sloshes a bit onto your hands when you rock back to rise onto your heels.

“ _It sure is an obstinate thing_ ,” you think blandly, watching the plant as it watches you.

Finding the cactuar was a pain and a half. Though you made a beeline for the location the tipster had marked on your map (the man was hopeful you’d “take care of” the little rabble-rousers), apparently they’re late risers and you spent a good half hour looking around. As you made to leave and search different locations, you saw movement out of the corner of your eye: A lone cactuar. It only approached when you got down to eye-level with it and you’ve been attempting to bargain with it ever since. How long has it been? An  _hour_? Your knees hurt...

With a huff, you hunch your shoulders and shake the bowl some more like you’re offering wet food to a cat, even making little clucking noises with your tongue to hopefully draw it near. Noct takes your change in position to finally step out from around the rocks and ask, “(y/n)?”

The reaction from the animated plant is immediate. Now realizing that it’s outnumbered, the cactuar hops up from its lazy position and takes off at the speed of light, kicking up sand in its wake. Though it quite enjoyed being entertained by such an odd creature, it’s rather shy around humans. You’re left falling back onto your butt and sputtering on dirt, “No!  _Wait_!” You call after the flighty creature, eyes watery from sediment and possibly from frustration. When you realize the damn thing isn’t coming back, jetting off over the horizon like it runs off of rocket fuel, you throw your head back and groan, “Dammit, Noct!”

“Were… Were you trying to  _haggle_  with a cactuar?” Noct asks the obvious, coming over to sit down on the ground next to you. At this point, you almost look like a powdered donut with the amount of dirt the cactuar threw into your face, sand stuck to you thanks in part to the water you accidentally emptied onto yourself when you fell (you have to quickly right the bowl since it’s now  _endlessly_  pouring water onto you). Noctis bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at you, cheeks going a bit pink with effort. Never a dull moment with you, huh?

“Cactuars are bright creatures when they aren’t turning people into pin cushions. Drusa said they can be docile, though shy, and my family has always been pretty good with the creatures that occupy Eos. I thought I might give it a shot,” you reply phlegmatically, eyes hooded in obvious displeasure at the royal’s interruption. You eye his disheveled state. Did he just wake up? “Anyway, what are you doing up so early? Did you have a nightmare? Indigestion? I  _told you_  not to eat so much meat before bed or you’ll get the meat nightmares.”

He adjusts on the ground beside you, uncrossing his legs and crossing them again with his right leg over the left. The way you worry about him? Being the Crown Prince, he  _always_  had people looking after him almost to the point that it was suffocating, so it’s not like he was never cared for or was deprived of love as a child; a nanny on his heels and Citadel staff around every corner. But the way  _you_  do it? Though you never fail to deflect with “It’s my job!” when your fixation on Noct is called out, your attention and your care is very, very different. Because it doesn’t feel like it’s purely based on duty: Rigid and impersonal.

Your care is genuine and leaves Noctis feeling rather flustered. It goes beyond a call to duty. It’s  _personal_  even when you huff and insist that it isn’t in the company of others.

So, in his usual awkwardness, the brunet gently shoves your shoulder and scolds, “First off, meat nightmares  _aren’t_  a thing. No matter how many times you insist they’re a thing, that doesn’t make them real and I  _know_  you only say they are so that I’ll give you more of my food at dinner. Second, I was looking for you.”

Damn! Your devious plot has been foiled. Caught red-handed, you carefully step over his first point to address the second. “Oh? Why? Other than to interrupt important negotiations, of course.”

“Well,  _excuse_  me,” snorts Noct. “I thought you were my arcane advisor, not a diplomat. You gonna go make deals with all of the wildlife?”

Feel that? The damn blush that spills across your cheeks feels like fire under your skin. For a moment, the bowl of water beside you is an attractive weapon. But you compose yourself with a highly dignified (and so damn haughty) cough. “Cute,” you simper, making Noct’s cheeks go red in turn. Such an easy thing to do. “Well, why were you looking for me? Spit it out, then. Give me the deets. Need me to make you more healing salve?”

His head is spinning from the dizzying way that you speak. The Mile-A-Minute Mage, Gladio sometimes calls you, for you speak so rapid-fire when you get fixated on a goal that the guys sometimes feel like they need a translator (Drusa would make a good one, to be perfectly honest). Though he came in search of you with a clear objective in mind, Noct finds himself getting sidetracked to snap, “ _No_. I haven’t even used the one you gave me. Peas are gross.”

“It’s not like you have to eat them,” you chuckle when he pouts at the mere idea of peas. The  _horror_. Then your eyes narrow in suspicion. “You  _do_ know that, right? It’s a topical ointment… Please tell me you didn’t try eating it, Noctis.”

“I didn’t,” he huffs, cheeks slightly puffed out.

You’re biting your tongue now. “Then cut to the chase or else I’ll be forced to keep guessing. And neither one of us wants that, believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you.” Noct picks at his pants. The ground beneath him is warm now but the air is growing even warmer as the sun rises. Soon that stifling, arid heat begins to settle around you two, chasing out the coolness left over from the night. Already Noct’s black clothes are turning against him and making him feel like a human oven. “Um… Let’s get into some shade. It’s getting kinda hot already.”

“Sure thing.”

A nearby tree (though pretty scrawny) is used for shelter. For added measure, you gather cool, buzzing energy in your palm and raise your hand up from your side in a smooth, arcing motion. Fingers are spread, sending that energy outward to cool the air around your charge and his commitment to black. A sigh of gratitude is your immediate reward and it’s with a pleased smile on your face that you disenchant the bowl of water before dumping its contents at the base of the tree.

Standing with you in the dappled sunlight beneath the tree, Noct’s at ease. Funny, that. After agonizing over the right words when he was trying to find you, stumbling through the wilderness, he feels rather serene now that you’re with him. It’s a combination of your smile and your considerate transition into an air conditioner that soothes his nerves. You two can be quiet company or quite rambunctious, and you always seem to know which the other would prefer without having to ask.

Right now, you know Noct is in want of support and an open mind. These are things that you’re typically never in short supply of when it comes to Noctis, though he can certainly push your buttons and vice versa. Sometimes you two seem to purposefully annoy each other for no apparent reason. He’ll roll his eyes and you’ll cross your arms with a pompous huff. Once, you even texted him a photo of trash in a gutter in Lestallum with the caption: “Thought of you when I saw this.”

But (for  _now_ , at least) you’re patient and polite, waiting to hear what’s on his mind. And Noct doesn’t make you wait for much longer.

“I wanted to tell you that I’ve settled things.” This declaration makes about as much sense to you as it does the voretooth that scampers by. At your blank expression, Noct brings his fist up to his mouth and coughs, leaning against that scrawny tree to  _smoothly_  explain, “If you, um… So, if you still wanna, y’know, date or anything I’m… available.”

Now it clicks.

So, he must’ve spoken to Luna, huh? Like everyone else, you know about the journal. Though the idea of journal communication would’ve bored you if you’d just heard about it from one of the guys, you had the privilege of seeing a cute little dog tote said journal around. The sight immediately made you wish that you were the one in communication with the Oracle if only to shake Umbra’s paw without fear of giving Noct the suspicion that you were trying to peep on his writing.

Images of Umbra have to be pushed aside when you realize you’ve left Noct hanging. What can you say? He’s a cute dog! The way his little tail curls is adorable. Secretly, you’ve had Prompto take a few photos of him just for you. As he sweats it out, waiting for your response, Noctis thinks you’re deeply and seriously contemplating a relationship with him. Little does he know you’re thinking about a  _dog_. And if he knew the truth? Honestly, he wouldn’t hold it against you. He thinks about dogs a lot. Cats, too. Any cuddly animal, actually.

“So, you still  _think_  you’re in love with me?” You tease, finally breaking the silence. “Or do you  _know_  it?”

Noct fights off a happy grin, refusing to give you the satisfaction, you little troll. He shrugs away from the tree so that he can cross his arms and properly scold you with his body language. “You’re never gonna let me live that down, huh?” Steely blue eyes are hooded and his lips are downturned. That expression of his looks more like a sneer, though, with how he struggles to keep himself from revealing to you how damn relieved he is that you haven’t turned him down outright and how eager he is for your  _actual_  response.

But dammit if you aren’t one evasive mage. It’s almost enough to make Noct grab you by your shoulders and shake you in frustration. And those shakeable shoulders shrug lazily as you take his place leaning against the tree. But you? You make it look cool. Chin rises and you cast your gaze down on him, looking pretentious as ever. With an airy sigh you admit, “Depends, honestly. Do you feel as strongly for me as you do that mysterious cartoon character, sweet Noctis?”

His shame is immediate and immensely gratifying: A scalding blush that almost undoes all of your work to cool the air. “Ugh. I love you more than a stupid cartoon character, all right? You’re like the worst person I could’ve admitted that to,” Noct groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Does your heart skip a beat? Yes. Several. It almost needs to be restarted thanks to how damn endearing Noctis Lucis Caelum is. So endearing that you have to make an active effort to refrain from kissing him. That admission of his has your chest tightening but the raven-haired royal is unaware of it thanks to your cool veneer. You’re jocular, way too tongue-in-cheek as you smoothly reply, “You can bet your cute butt on that one. Black magic and black _mail_ are my trade, Highness.”

“Boo. That wasn’t even a funny joke.” Noct rolls his eyes and pulls a face that makes it look like your joke was so bad that it was physically painful to him. In reality, he’s trying not to let you know how pleased he is to hear that you think his butt is cute or that you think about his butt at all, the dork.

This dynamic of mutual raillery has practically become the lifeblood of you two. It’s like you’ve known him your whole life and he feels the same. Such an immediate connection that flourished into a friendship before blossoming into love. All the while, the jokes (sometimes biting, sometimes just plain lame) have remained. Noctis counts himself lucky that he’s fallen for a friend. And standing here, looking at you with that superior expression on your face that he could only ever tolerate coming from  _you_ , he hopes you still feel the same.

It’s a foolish little fear that he calls “realistic:” The idea that you might’ve changed your mind. Noct wouldn’t blame you if you did. Hell, not everyone would’ve agreed to waiting for a guy to sort out his engagement to  _another person_. Noct can only imagine how you must’ve been feeling while you waited (though it was admittedly a short wait). At times, he feared you thought he was just continuing to string you along. At times, he feared you thought he was a coward for putting you in such a position in the first place.

The air begins to feel far too cool under this withered tree that Noct is beginning to suspect might  _actually_  be a large shrub. And what does it matter? Well, he’s distracting himself with all sorts of trivialities the longer you delay, the longer you look at him with just a hint of a smirk and something quite devilish in your eyes. “Okay, then,” you drawl, tugging your sweater a bit closer and turning down the magic just a tad. “Wanna hear a better joke? I guarantee it’ll make you  _laugh_.”

Always eager for your jokes even if they make him cringe, Noctis sighs like he’s being forced to watch a documentary on gardening (the  _gall_ ), “Fine. But I highly doubt I’ll be laughing. Your jokes are notoriously awful. Especially your  _puns_.”

“I love you.” You don’t miss a damn beat. The second Noct finishes his griping, you sucker punch him with that blunt statement. Somehow, you manage to weaponize a romantic declaration. ‘Cause it nearly kills Noct where he stands.

“Wh-What?”

His mouth is dry and it isn’t from the desert heat, because you’ve been keeping him properly cooled. Still, Noctis feels like he’s on fire. The tree is abandoned and you lean against the brunet, casual as ever. You inspect your nails in boredom, pick at a scar on your index finger that you got from playing fast and loose with knife safety rules in your herbalism class, and repeat, “I love you. That’s the joke. Funny, right? And you don’t even play second fiddle to any cartoon char-”

Your snark is cut off with a swift and unskilled kiss. Unlike before, it’s far too timid but it’s still just as desperate- filled with emotions that make Noct feel like he might burst. His fingers curl into your lavender cardigan to pull you flush against him; an unnecessary move considering you’ve already eagerly done so. It’s artless and far too sloppy. Yet when you both look back on this moment you’ll come to the same conclusion: It’s the perfect “official” first kiss of your relationship.

The smell of the cologne Noctis bought specifically to try and turn your head when he first realized how he felt for you still lingers on his clothes from yesterday; something with hints of lavender and coffee, sharp and woody. It made him think of you, which was an odd reason to purchase cologne since it’s supposed to make  _you_  think of  _him_. Hands glide up his shoulders before you reach up and pull your fingers through his dark hair. They stick a bit in his pomade and Noct damns himself for not showering before bed.

For a romantic moment, Noct is rather stiff. Arms encircle your waist to keep you close and that closeness is what he tells himself to be satisfied with for the time being. This leaves you to come across like the suave expert. Little does he know your “expertise” comes from blushing at movies. But he’s stuck in his head, thinking about how he should’ve prepared for… What? Prepared for an unforeseen moment? Maybe he should’ve taken a shower after sending Umbra off? Oh, shit! He forgot to brush his teeth!

In frenzied panic, Noct is just about to step away and awkwardly ask if you two can continue this later when you press him against the tree, one leg between his and your hands on his hips. All panic dissolves the second you press scorching kisses to his neck and use a thumb to massage his left hip. Noct suddenly realizes how sensitive his hips are. Or at least they are when _you’re_  the one doing the touching. Have they always been sensitive? He’s not ticklish or anything...

The royal seems to be a bit lazy when it comes to this sort of thing; wanting to sit back and bask in your affection and attention. It’s not intended to be inconsiderate on his part, and it’s mostly due to an attempt to try and process all these things that you’re making him feel. Yet you find that your desire to lavish Noctis with attention in your general interactions extends to  _this_. He has a sort of neediness that you want to satiate. He feeds a desire for control that you didn’t realize you had.

Nose brushes along his neck as you trail those kisses back up to his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. Noct’s heart flutters dangerously along with his eyelids, his stomach twists into anxious knots. Before the kiss can deepen and before you can comment on his gross hygiene (‘cause the royal is  _totally sure_  that you’re gonna and to be perfectly honest, he’s grossed out with himself for initiating the kiss while in this disheveled state in the first place), Noct pulls away to senselessly comment, “It’s hot.”

Eyes blink rapidly in confusion before you step away with an abashed chuckle. It  _is_  pretty hot. Sweat drips down your back and your sweater is suffocating. “Sorry. I, uh, lost concentration,” you admit with a shrug.

“What?”

At Noct’s monosyllabic response that seems to hint at some disconnect, you slowly explain, “The air. I got caught up in the moment and stopped cooling the air.”

“Oh,” Noct laughs but not too hard, since he doesn’t want his breath getting near you. In fact, he turns his face away, all self-conscious, to add, “I wasn’t talking about the air.”

“What?”

The pinnacle of human interaction, ladies and gentlemen.

After spending so much time with Noctis, it doesn’t take you long to figure out when you’ve entered into a dead-end conversation. These usually happen when one or both of you are feeling uncomfortable, so you comfortingly rub Noct’s shoulder which prompts him to blush prettily. You think you’ve ferreted out what the problem is. The way he stiffened when your fingers kinda snagged in his hair? How he suddenly clamped his lips together in the middle of kissing? The little head turn when speaking?

Gods, Noctis Lucis Caelum is too damn cute.

You give his shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting him go and sighing, “Never mind. Let’s head back, hm? I have to admit, it was getting a  _little_  awkward with you being so close, considering I didn’t have time to shower this morning ‘cause Gladio was taking forever and a year to put on some damn sweats.” The prince is offered a demure smile. “Still, I have to say I quite enjoyed myself. Let’s do it again some time.” You turn on your heel and walk away. But not before seeing the charmed (and so damn relieved) little smirk on Noct’s face.


	53. Prompto: Nicknames pt.1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just mindless fluff. Occurs at some point after you two begin dating.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Mage Magnetism is Over 9,000, Prompto Needs a Break

**Nicknames pt.1**

“It looks like swamp water,” the blond whines, turning his red nose up at the cup of admittedly sludgy looking tea you extend to him. It’s a delightful murky green color (The color it’s  _supposed_  to be!) and you honestly don’t see what’s so unappealing about it. The thing that would give  _even you_  pause? It’s bubbling.

“Ex-Ex _cuse_  me?” You know the blond likes it when you over exaggerate. He just loves to see the mage ham it up for him. Which is why you put your free hand on your chest and scoff so loud that it kinda hurts your throat. Or maybe your throat hurts ‘cause Prom is giving you his sickness? You wouldn’t be surprised. He’s been a baby about having a cold.

The sharpshooter has been stuck to your side like glue since the first sneeze. It’s the first time he’s ever been sick around you and you  _knew_  you were in trouble when Noct groaned after Prompto made the tearful announcement at camp that he was sick. Thus, you and the blond have been left behind at camp during frivolous tasks.

Today is one such occasion: Simple retrieval missions that have begun to be the norm. Hell, you’ve even approached Noct about buying postal worker outfits. Gladio was down until Iggy informed you all that it’s a crime to impersonate a government employee. Prom pointed out that you could wear normal clothes and it turned into a huge debate over a hypothetical scenario.

Anyway, back to Prompto and his award-winning performance as a man dying from a head cold.

Said invalid screws his face up and complains, “It literally looks like you walked out into the shallow end of Vesperpool and took water from there. You know where I mean. The spots between the trees.”

“Ah. You’ve a keen eye! This is brewed with a type of algae from there,” you unhelpfully inform him. ‘Cause now there’s no way in hell that he’s going to drink it. When you see his mortified expression, like you just told him it’s soylent green (Honestly, he looks about ready to yell: “Soylent green is  _people_!”), you sigh.

“No way!” He moans pathetically, bringing his blanket up to cover his face. The longer this drags out, the more you start to feel like the tent is a cesspool of his sickness. Used tissues decorate the floor of the tent as do throat lozenge wrappers. The air in here smells faintly of cherry syrup, menthol, and misery. Specifically, Prompto’s brand of dramatic misery.

Side-eyeing the freckled blond who is currently pretending to be a ghost or something with that sheet pulled over his head, you drawl, “Didn’t realize you were such a pain when you’re ill.”

“What kind of thing is that to say to a sick person?” His voice is muffled and highly indignant.

You rock back on your heels a moment before finally sitting down on the floor of the tent next to him. A used tissue is pulled out from under your thigh and flung across the tent with a grimace. “Here I am, offering you something for your  _ravaged_  immune system, and you reject it and pull a blanket over your head like object permanence is no longer a thing.”

The blanket lowers a bit so you can see those pitiful watery blue eyes. Like every movement is _such_  a burden, Prompto adjusts himself so he’s facing you rather than sitting next to you. Even like this, you can feel the heat radiating off of him. That makes you frown and reach over to touch his forehead with the back of your hand.

His eyelids flutter at the contact before he can stop that instant reaction and you hide a smirk. The tea is placed off to the side (you ignore Prom’s sigh of relief) and you focus your energy on your right hand. Skin hums, a dulled feeling, and begins to crystalize. Like he’s never seen you perform a bit of magic, the sick shutterbug widens his eyes and gasps.

And then he shrieks.

Despite the fact that you’re  _supposed_  to be taking care of him, you’re howling with laughter at his expense the second your icy hand touches his neck rather than his forehead. He totally wasn’t expecting you to be a complete troll. Freckled cheeks burn bright red in shame for that scream that only dogs could hear.

“That’s not nice!” Prompto scolds, blanket coming right back up again and over his head. But the blanket shakes. He’s laughing. Prom damns himself for not being able to stay mad at you for longer than a split second. And then he damns  _you_  for being so freakin’ cute. If he wasn’t so sick, he’d… Well, he doesn’t know what he’d do to you...

You cluck your tongue and glance at the tea, “If you don’t drink what I made you, I’ll do it again, Blondie. Don’t care if it’s not nice.”

“Don’t call me that,” he mumbles.

“You’re blond! What am I supposed to call you?” Eyes roll but you aren’t exactly done teasing. You’re going to give him hell until he breaks and finally drinks his damn algae tea. Listen, it took like two hours to brew! “Should I call you… Sunshine?” He makes a disaffected hum from beneath his blanket. Lips quirk.

Hand shakes away the ice so that you can recline back on your hands to continue this little game. What? It’ll boost morale. “Freckles?” An unamused grunt. “Chocobutt?” A scoff. “Loverboy?” An embarrassed, questioning noise. “Handsome?” Sputtering. “Sweet Thing?” Silence. “Oh! I know! Butt… Monster?”

The hell?

“What the-?” Prompto yanks the blanket down in disbelief, ready to ask you what the heck kinda nickname  _that_  is, only to see you scrolling lazily on your phone. The faint blue light illuminates your face in the dimness of the tent as you look for more names. Lower lip pouts out and he gripes, “You were looking those up?!”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m not  _that_  creative. I pulled out my phone after ‘Chocobutt,’ which, to be frank, is a  _great_  nickname.” You flash him your phone’s screen. “This site generates random nicknames. That last one took a bit of a turn, though. How about…” you don’t even look at the screen, eyes locked with his, “My Everything?”

You have to hand it to dear Prompto Argentum: He wears red well.

“I-I mean… You-Your-? Everything? Like… as in…  _Everything_?” He’s floundering, sputtering. Oh, it’s a delightful mess. It’s a miracle that you can keep yourself from laughing as he continues on with his painful rambling, “D-Do you-? You mean…? You…?”

Slowly getting on your knees, you close the distance between you two. Hand is iced over once more and you gently, tenderly ghost the back of your hand across his feverish forehead. Again, his eyelids flutter. He doesn’t even notice you reach back. You extend the tea to him and look at him from beneath your lashes to sigh, “My Everything? Please, drink your tea.”

Prompto downs it in one gulp.


	54. 18. Ache (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is fluff and smut for one and all. Prepare your eyes, for they shall be scalded.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, NSFW, Awkward Dates, One Awkward Handjob Comin’ Up, Sorta Sub!Noct, The World’s Fastest Handjob  & a Blowjob in the Dark, The Mildest of Body Worship, Insecurities & Comfort, Penetrative Sex, Iggy the Mage Caretaker, Pinot Grigio is Not Mouthwash, Fingering, Somewhat Rough Sex, Is There Such a Thing as Too Much Foreplay?, There Definitely is Such a Thing as Too Much Body Oil

**18\. Ache**

**Noctis**

Tomorrow is Leviathan’s trial. It has loomed on the horizon for days now as you’ve all hunted daemons and performed menial tasks for the benefit of the people of Altissia. Being everyone’s gofer seems to be the group’s lot in life. Not like _Noctis_ helps things. It’s like the prince lives to gather up as many quests as possible and (back when you were all in mainland Lucis) it was as if he had super-hearing and could hear cries for help even when the Regalia was going 60 mph with the windows up. 

It’s honestly no wonder he sleeps like a damn log. 

But it’s a bit much, really. Even after traveling with these guys for so long, it’s like you can’t quite acclimate to a life on the go. Sure, you were a busy little bee in the Spire, but that was _the Spire_. There’s a huge difference between running errands and having a packed schedule in the confines of an old college versus jetting around an entire kingdom. There’s a huge difference between snarking at magisters and having them snark back at you over research papers versus fighting daemons and animals for your life. 

It’s a miracle you haven’t dropped dead from exhaustion. But dammit if you aren’t getting close. And Noct? He can tell. And he feels _so bad_. 

‘Cause before, when you’d get worked to the point of collapse, it was because _you_ were doing it to _yourself_. That giant nerd of a mage and their damn research. How many times did he trip over priceless, ancient books only to have you practically hiss at him like a giant, angry cat? How many times did he reach for a cup of coffee only for Specs to lightly inform him that you’d consumed the entire pot? But now the bags under your eyes and your soft sighs are _his_ fault. Part of him thinks you’re renting your own separate hotel room out of anger... 

The raven-haired royal wants so badly to make it up to you, especially because you haven’t uttered a single word of complaint. Your assuredness brings him much comfort. In the face of great adversity, you squint your eyes at him and smirk. When you’d been impaled on a yojimbo’s sword you made Specs swear not to make kabobs for dinner and Noct laughed even though his heart had stopped at the horrific sight. You’ve endured so much and taken it all in stride and Noctis just wants to pay you back. 

He just wants to show that he’s noticed and appreciates it. Frankly, it’s the biggest clue that he’s got it bad for you. ‘Cause being an uncomplaining champion on Noctis Lucis Caelum’s behalf is literally your job. Well, it’s your job as the _Mage_ , not as arcane advisor. Still... 

It’s nighttime and you’ve all just finished a hunt, stomping out the troubling trend of daemon’s emerging in Altissia’s alleyways. It’d been _so_ tempting for you to bind the mindflayer to you considering you don’t have one yet. Like some sort of collector of the macabre, you’ve attached one of every daemon you’ve come across to yourself. But you couldn’t risk casting the spell and raising suspicions. 

It’s as you’re contemplating how difficult it would be for you to bind a mindflayer in single-combat that you hear a tentative cough. Eyes alight on Noctis and the guys all share a knowing look before exiting the alley. Noct addresses a brick wall when he haltingly says, “Hey, (y/n)? Let’s... go on a date.”

“A date, Mr. Shatner?” You snort, always eager to tease.

“Oh, whatever,” Noct huffs, puffing his cheeks out; a habit he hasn’t broken since childhood. “Like _you’ve_ never stammered or anything before? I just forgot the word for ‘date.’”

“Just keep digging that grave, my sweet prince.” 

The actual passage of time and the perceived passage of time haven’t been in equilibrium for a while now within the group. You’ve only known everyone for a short time yet it feels like years. Weeks? Months? No. Like _centuries_. But living closely with other people will do that. Having those people save your life and vice versa? That does it, too. Many lifelong companionships pale in comparison to the bond that’s grown between all of you, particularly between you and Noct. 

He can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that he knows you best- better than most. “Better than anyone,” the royal might brag. And he’s earned the right to boast about getting to know perhaps one of the most secretive people on Eos. That taciturn mage is putty in his hands. His dorky laugh never fails to get you laughing and his jokes always get a smile out of you. Noct’s food is exchanged for your appreciative looks and those looks are exchanged for shy handholding. It’s a confusing bartering system to outsiders. 

It’s a wonderful give and take for you two. 

Noct might call you a parasite if the food you take is _anything other than_ a damn vegetable, but it’s only ever said in jest. A jocular relationship, that’s what it is. It stands in such stark contrast to everything going on around you two. And when you really get down to it, it’s one of the only things (aside from your friendships with the guys and Drusa) that keeps you sane and grounded. Through all of the destruction and despair, you can always count on Noct’s lame jokes, you can always count on finding a random carrot making its way onto your plate.

And now he wants to make your time in Altissia memorable, considering the city was all you talked about when you first met up. You'd pester Ignis about the schedule, wondering when the time would come to set sail. But now that you're here? You've barely even _glanced_ at the city. Noct thinks it’s the stress and rightly so. However, your stress isn’t caused by what he think it’s caused by. Noctis believes it’s all of this back-and-forth with daemon hunts and late nights that are getting to you. If only it were that simple. 

“So, you’re sayin’ that me taking you out on a date is me digging my own grave?” The royal wonders lightly, just casually glossing over his own social ineptitude. Blue eyes watch as you wipe off the end of your staff with the sleeve of your sweater after having used it to jab one of the daemon’s in the “octopus face,” as Prompto so fondly describes them. The others have already gone off in search of fun and food after such a taxing battle, well aware of their dark-haired pal’s intentions. 

Noct may be reticent but he’s easy enough for those longtime friends to read (at certain times, at least). Plus... I mean, he couldn’t _possibly_ be any more obvious about how he feels about you. Ever since he botched his first confession, ever since he redeemed himself in that dusty Lestallum bookstore, ever since he kissed you in the desert after ruining your _highly_ important cactuar negotiations... Noct has practically been glued to your side. Funny, ‘cause you never took him for the clingy sort. 

It’s all “accidental” handholding with him. Complaining about a draft at his end of the tent so Prompto will snort and trade spots with him so the prince can sleep next to you (and totally steal your body heat, the damn leech), too. Or, if you go off on one of your many mysterious midnight journeys or daytime herb hunts, your phone occasionally buzzes with texted gifs and random memes. No context. Just gifs and memes. Noct’s particular brand of humor tends to be context-less memes with a deadpan delivery. He only starts grinning and laughing after you do. 

“In a sense. But I’m mostly warning you that it’s your awkwardness that will be your undoing,” you simper, playing along. That oversized sweater is adjusted on your form, the daemon muck ignored. “But when you’re making a fool out of yourself? _That’s_ when I feel most alive. I savor it like fine wine,” you gesture with your hand like you’re swirling a dry red in a crystal glass. 

Noct snorts, eyes glinting in the limited light of the lonesome alley. “So you enjoy my suffering?” 

“Only a certain type of your suffering. It’s more like...” Shoulder smarts when you lean a bit too heavily against the stone wall of what must be an apartment complex. Damn you and your need to look superior and cool. It tickles you to death when Noct mimics your movements and emits a barely audible “ow.” You clear your throat and explain, “It’s more like a _passive_ enjoyment of watching you skillfully shove your foot into your mouth.” 

“Gee. Thanks,” grumbles Noct. He sounds totally unamused with the fact that you so blatantly enjoy every moment of his social suffering while _he_ can’t even enjoy _yours_ , being so sensitive to second-hand cringe himself. The prince shoves his hands in his pockets. Joking as he may be right now, he hasn’t forgotten that you haven’t answered his question. He’ll completely understand if you don’t want to go out but it won’t stop him from being disappointed. 

“No. Thank _you_ for the show,” you tease, grinning now. It’s this lighthearted banter that really brightens your day. Little moments alone with the future king where neither one of you is thinking about duty but rather trying to find a way to poke fun at one another. It’s a little strange, given you absolutely _hated it_ when fellow students would needle you. Maybe it’s in the delivery? Noct clearly doesn’t mean any harm when he calls you a glutton. 

People pass by the alley, laughing and oblivious to the fact that three mindflayers were here and ready to jump their butts not ten minutes ago. The two of you watch them pass with varying degrees of envy. Noct looks from over his shoulder, having just a fleeting desire to have the type of relationship with you that he can flaunt. You’re more envious of the food one of the guys is eating. Is that a waffle covered in chocolate sauce? Where the heck do they sell those in Altissia? 

“Should I take that as a ‘no’ then?” Noct queries, finally returning that simmering gaze to you.

You blink in surprise. “Hm?” 

“For the date,” the brunet explains, a hint of shyness bleeding into his voice, making it taper off at the end into a murmured thing. 

“Oh!” You exclaim, shrugging away from the wall. “Sorry. I was too busy ribbing you to answer.” 

“Yeah. I know. I was there.” 

“Tch! Anyway, I’d _love_ to go on a date with you. However, my only concern is the hour, Noctis.” You gesture rather unnecessarily to the dark sky with its twinkling stars up above. A bit of light-pollution makes the night sky not quite as beautiful as it is when you’re all out in Leide or even Duscae, where it seems like you can see a million stars. “I’m not too sure there’s much to do _at night_ , either, what with it just being the two of us.” 

Dead silence. 

“ _Gods, could I be any more obvious that I’m talking a load of crap?_ ” You wonder, hoping to the Astrals that you aren’t coming across to Noct like you can’t keep it in your pants. It’s not as if sex is the only thing that’s ever on your brain. In fact, it actually took a while for it to pop up. It took a lot of time to get to know Noctis, maybe too much contemplation than necessary (you thought of about a million worse-case scenarios), and probably more chats than Drusa was comfortable with. 

And Noct _knows_ what you’re getting at. It’s been something he’s wanted you to get at for a while now, if he’s being honest. How much innuendo have you carelessly tossed his way in the hopes of a reaction? How many times have you touched him _just so_ to get a rise out of him? Too many damn times. And now that you two are “officially” dating (Noct blushed and told you not to say that you’re “courting him”), things have progressed faster than you thought they would. 

It’s understandable, though, given that you’re dating your best friend and quite possibly the one person you trust implicitly, second to Dru. And there was enough foolish “foreplay” before you made this official to last you two a lifetime. With Noctis you feel comfortable. And for someone who lived practically their whole life on the edge of their seat? It makes you lament over a life you could’ve had where this loving person would have been with you through your lowest moments. 

Noctis’ quiet company is enjoyed just as much as his chatty moods where his voice remains modulated and he always seems to have a secret smile on his face like a Cheshire cat. You’ve never met anyone quite like Noct before. And Noct has never met anyone quite like you. It’s obvious with how he’s stuck on you like glue. His favoritism doesn’t hurt any feelings, surprisingly enough. If anything, the others are just cautiously happy that their friend has found love... in another friend. 

Frankly, they all thought it was kinda hilarious when they each realized Noct had fallen hard for you. To see their quiet friend find someone who seems to have a manual for all of his expressions? Iggy was and is the most apprehensive, if only because he has the desire to protect Noctis from heartbreak. Growing up, any crush Noct had had Iggy preemptively formulating a supportive talk and things of that sort for when the object of the prince’s affections inevitably ended up dating someone else, since Noct never asked anyone out. 

Gladiolus is on the opposite end of the spectrum. He doesn’t think his pals’ relationships are any of his business and he knows you and Noct are people who prefer at least a modicum of personal space, especially with regard to private affairs. But, alas, he also falls prey to some of Iggy’s more protective tendencies. It’s difficult _not to_ when you’ve known someone practically your entire life. Plus, there’s always the chance of a more complicated relationship rocking the boat, so to speak, and Gladdy likes for the group to be _harmonious..._ most of the time. 

And Prompto? There’s a strange one. The world couldn’t possibly have a bigger fan of Noct or you than Prompto Argentum. So, the blond is bizarrely thrilled that his two favorite people are in a relationship. You can thank Prom for pretty much every private moment you have with Noct since the creative little shutterbug comes up with all sorts of ways to give you two space, from getting you to run errands together to splitting up on hunts (which gets him a side-eye from Iggs each time). 

But they all support the relationship in their own way, either quietly like Ignis or quite vocally like Prompto. They’re happy that you two are (so far) happy. And it honestly helps things along. You’d been wary of coming under scrutiny from your fellow royal advisors for crossing that professional boundary with your charge. And since Noctis settled things with his imperial-requested engagement, there’s nothing for you to feel guilty or weird about. There’s a clear path. 

Doesn’t mean you _don’t_ feel awkward when you talk about romance. 

“I-I didn’t mean anything by it,” you finally stammer when you can’t take the silence much longer. When you can’t take that simmering gaze from the raven-haired royal. Is it hot out? The night air is actually pretty cool but your face feels like it’s on fire. “It was an honest observation. Most places are closed at this time.” 

“I’m sure we can think of _something_ to do.” Noctis doesn’t say it in a lascivious way but the two of you fidget just the same. See? Awkward. Awkward as all hell even after having surmounted what felt like a million hurdles just to get to this point. His cheeks flush pink and he coughs into the crook of his elbow, a nervous habit that he picked up from you. “Uh... I meant that Altissia has a bit of a nightlife.” 

“Aside from daemons? ‘Cause I know you aren’t asking me to go to a club.” You almost leap at the opportunity to joke around. The more “paling around” you can muster, the better. Damn you and your need to escape tense situations with humor. That oversized sweater is hugged even closer to you for comfort. 

Noct gives you an exasperated sigh for your commentary. “I’m _not_. Loud places aren’t exactly my favorite thing-” 

“Could’ve fooled me with that monster arena or whatever it’s called.” 

“That’s different,” the raven-haired man insists, blushing at the memory of nearly yelling his throat raw in support of his chosen beast, flailing around his horn like a madman. He kinda got into it, okay?! Who knew that rooting for a garula, of all things, could be so exciting? But then he’d looked over and saw you with your eyebrows raised, smiling at him, and he wished for instant death. He’s been waiting for you to bring it up since. 

“ _Sure_ it is,” the faux sincerity in your voice makes his hackles rise. “But what is it that you want to do aside from watching animals rip each other apart?” 

Blue eyes dart around the alley as if he’ll find his answer on the walls or on the wrapper of a candy bar that someone dropped and didn’t bother picking up. “How about street food and a gondola ride?” 

Though you’ve been on what feels like thousands of gondola rides since you got to this city of inconveniences, you aren’t about to shoot down Noct’s suggestion. Besides, the two of you haven’t ridden on one alone. _Together_. Six, when you really think about it, it sounds like something from the movies. The thought has you drawling with a small smile, “Sounds romantic.” 

“Good. It’s supposed to be.” 

Sometimes... Sometimes Noctis Lucis Caelum can be cool. Or you’re just so taken with him that the world’s most giant dork _seems_ cool. ‘Cause Noct is like the _opposite_ of smooth but _that_? That was pretty damn smooth and you’re pretty damn impressed. Too bad that’s as smooth as he’s gonna get tonight. Too bad you’re both going to be reduced to blushing, stammering, cringing fools tonight. Even still, tonight is a night that you’ll both look back on fondly. 

“Well, then. With that in mind, what are we waiting for?” You grin, eagerly grabbing Noct by the hand and leading him out of the alley. That eagerness of yours serves to bolster his nerve. 

Altissia isn’t short on supply of street food or any type of food, for that matter. A tourist trap, it has a wide variety of food joints serving a litany of sweet and savory dishes to choose from. Lighter fare can be found in restaurants but it’s the stalls that you and Noct stick to. It’s pricey for street food, at least compared to Lestallum, and your frugal ass is quick to say so. A snort and an amused glance is all you get from Noct before he throws down nearly thirty-thousand gil on _street food_. 

Everything is either on skewers or in cups, so it makes settling down on the gondola less messy than it would’ve been otherwise. The gondolier, upon seeing the feast of fast food, knows what’s up. It’s pretty common for people to utilize the gondolas for dates and it’s almost like the guy isn’t even there. Except you know he is. And Noct knows he is. And you two are notoriously awkward around strangers. It’s apparent in the way you go from playfully ribbing each other to defaulting to pedestrian small-talk. 

“This is good,” you comment, mouth half full with grilled veggies. 

“Yeah,” says Noct, even as he picks the vegetables off of his kabob and sticks them on the end of yours. 

Water sloshes lazily, the sound almost comforting. You can hear radios and TVs when you pass under the windows of sleepy homes and buzzing stores that are open late. Occasionally you hear happy or drunken chatter. All the while, as you look every bit the tourist with your head snapping to and fro, Noct waits for his social buffer to say something again. Six, he feels like the gondolier is staring at the back of his head. Is he staring at the back of his head? 

Little does he know that his blatant discomfort feeds your own. 

What’s supposed to be a romantic gondola ride winds up being you and Noct exchanging pleasantries, pointing at interesting buildings or statues rather stiffly, and quietly eating your food with some rando gondolier standing at your back. As the tension amps up and you start stress- eating the pieces of bell pepper that Noct discarded from his kabob before moving onto his waffle, it happens. One of your stress reactions: Laughter. 

“What’s up with you?” Noct questions, already chuckling a bit, your laughter a contagious thing. He watches with his eyes turned to crescents as you double over, trying in vain to keep the last bit of meat from sliding off of that wooden stick. Noct’s hand shoots out to catch the cube of beef which he pops into his mouth. All of that arduous training certainly paid off. If Gladio were here, he’d tease Noct about him being quick on the draw for beef but not for battle. 

“Hey!” You whine, stopping your laughter long enough to address that food crime. You give his shoulder a light shove, stabilizing yourself with your other hand firmly pressed down on the plush, ornately patterned seat, the now meat-less stick trapped there. 

Noct looks positively flippant, bottom lip pouted out in mild contempt for your dismay and his blue eyes are hooded. “What? Finders keepers, losers we- Hey!” His chocolate-dipped waffle is nabbed by the sneaky mage when his guard is lowered. A piece of the fluffy treat is ripped off and shoved into your mouth before Noct can scramble to take it back. Now his pout is full-blown. The waffle is hastily eaten before you can go for more, the royal chipmunking it. 

“You were saying?” You’re reclined back into the high-backed chair, arms crossed and looking triumphant. You look like a little shit to Noct, who slowly struggles to chew the waffle in his mouth. Oh, shit, he might actually choke. 

The brunet scowls, chewing more vigorously so he has enough room in his mouth to murmur, “Finders keepers, losers weepers.” 

“Uh-huh. I see _you’re_ weeping now, _loser_.” 

That haughty sneer? That casual repose with one leg crossed over the other? Gods, even when you’re holding a damn grease-stained skewer, that look gets Noct hot under the collar and he has no idea why. Usually he hates people who act like they’re better than everyone. He’d death-stare wannabe bullies into oblivion back when he was a kid. But when you do it? When you tilt your chin up and gaze down your nose at him? There’s some strange allure there to take the edge off. 

But it takes a bit _too much_ of the edge off and he’s thankful that it’s dark out. Not like you’d make fun of him over an accidental erection. Still, Noct fidgets in his seat. Confusion flashes in your eyes at his sudden unease and he jumps to deflect. “Why were you laughing?” 

“Because this is kinda awkward. Or it _was_.” You answer without any pomp and circumstance. Your pal’s discomfort is plain for you to see and Noctis isn’t one to default to pointless small-talk; it’s either nice chats or deep conversations. Sure, he may engage in small-talk but that’s only when he’s uncomfortable. Like now. And you fear you might’ve said or done something to upset him but can’t figure out what. 

“Yeah?” Noct cocks his head, brow furrowed and the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. “Glad I wasn’t the only one feeling that.” 

Head is ducked and your lips are close to his ear to whisper, “I didn’t factor in the creepiness of hanging out on a gondola. It’s just really weird having this guy standing behind us while we’re trying to relax. Y’know?” 

Did you have to do that? Really? Goosebumps break out along his skin and Noct turns to whisper right back, “I thought it was just me! It _is_ kinda creepy having someone standing behind you the whole time and not saying anything. I didn’t even like it back home.” He’s so close that all you can focus on are his eyes. They crinkle in the corners with a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry.” 

“What’s there to apologize for?” You wonder, sitting back so he can’t hear your still very audible gulp. “I’m having fun stealing your shit and sitting so close to you,” you joke despite the fact that you just obviously moved out of his bubble. And Noct notices. You know he notices because there he goes with that ghost of a smile on his face. 

“Wanna head back to the hotel?”

Oh. Is that why he was smiling? Honestly, Noct feels like he’s dying with every millisecond that you don’t say anything. But you’re both a bit beyond this coy nonsense. You’re both a bit beyond “accidentally” touching each other and then going about your business like it didn’t happen. And this date was a nice enough icebreaker, as are pretty much every single one of your interactions, to be frank. 

“Your room or mine?” 

If he felt like he was dying for the entirety of the two agonizing seconds of your silence, your answer just about makes him drop dead. “Yours.” 

“Cool. That way I can charge the room for movies.” Flippancy is your go-to right now, especially because Noct is so tense even if he’s putting up a cool front. Lights from a restaurant catch a bead of sweat rolling down his face before he can swipe it away. With a disarming smile, you continue to lean back into your chair and add, “I don’t think Iggy would let me get away with that in the group’s room.” 

“By the way, why _did_ you get your own room?” Noct asks, not that he’s complaining. Your sudden need for privacy here in Altissia at least affords you two a location for amorous activities without fear of anyone walking in on you. However, he _does_ miss having you around at night. Until you got your own room, he hadn’t realized how much your mere presence helped him sleep. Yeah, he’s typically a heavy sleeper. But with you around, the nightmares are minimal and he just feels... safe. He really misses you and it’s only been two days. 

“Because three people on one bed was getting to be a little much. Plus, I don’t want to have to hear Gladio complain about my stuff.” The truth is, what with all the daemon has been doing for you, you figure that the _least_ you can do is give it a space where it can move freely and comfortably in your company without having to take the form of an animal. For the past couple of days, you’ve been indulging the daemon’s preference for wearing Orion Spiros’ skin; something you couldn’t do in a shared room. 

“You mean your garbage?” Noct’s rude albeit somewhat truthful observation snaps you out of your reverie. 

My, my. Noctis certainly knows how to ruffle your feathers. The two of you joke around all the time, but Noct always tends to go for the jugular. It’s a quality that’s accidentally bruised a couple of egos, for sure, and yours smarts just a tad at having your somewhat compulsive tendency to pick up lost or discarded items reduced down like that. “Okay, first of all: Do I hear you guys complaining when we all reap the benefits of that _garbage_ when it’s sold? And second of all: Gladio picks stuff up, too!”

Those soulful blue eyes observe you for a moment before the prince slowly points out, “Yeah, well, he picks up antidotes and stuff. You pick up buttons and old coins.” 

He’s got you there. 

“Uh-huh. I’ll remind you of this conversation the next time you’re short on cash for a milkshake,” you snap. The searing heat in your cheeks is ignored. But it can’t be ignored for much longer, ‘cause it takes no time at all to get to the hotel once you inform the gondolier of where you’d like to go. Paranoia has you both feeling like everyone knows what you’re up to as the two of you walk through the lobby and take the stairs to the second floor. All the while, you anxiously list off movie suggestions which Noct hums and grunts at. 

“ _Six, please don’t let this be the worst night of my life- Or Noct’s!_ ”

‘Cause if it is? Well, the two of you have surmounted loads of obstacles- some of which were of your own making. What’s disappointing sex but another horrible, debilitating obstacle that you can overcome if you don’t die of shame first? 

“ _Very helpful thoughts..._ ” 

There’s a bit of fumbling with the keycard before you insert it correctly under a judgmental blue gaze. “And this is my room!” Opening the door, you swing your arm out theatrically like you’re a realtor showing a home. Then you remember that you have to switch the lights on for Noctis to actually see your _wonderful_ room. This gets Noct to snort and bring his hand up to his mouth so he can stop himself from laughing at your expense. 

“It’s a- It’s a cool room, (y/n). Smaller than mine, but...” The brunet trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. 

An alchemy table has been manufactured out of the coffee table- littered with glass vials and all sorts of pungent plants. Books are sat in neat piles around said table along with scrolls and a rainbow of dried-out pens. Despite the sheer volume of scholarly and magical items strewn about, Noct notes that it’s a _tidy_ mess- just like you. The good news for you two is that the daemon is out and about. Usually it heads off at night to do whatever it is that it does. There’s no threat of any intrusion. 

The two of you meander into the room, the door shutting behind you with a sense of finality. Okay, that’s too damn dramatic. You tell yourself to cut it out with all of this obsessive over-thinking as you set about turning on the TV and flipping through the menu, sat on the foot of the bed with Noct still lingering by the door. Despite the fact that the feeling of comfort and respect is mutual, so is this high anxiety that has you both fidgeting with loose threads on shirts and buttons on jackets. Besides- 

“Nothing even has to happen.” 

Can you die now? Just check-out early, the Hydraean and her trial be damned? Because you said that out loud. Yeah. You did. You meant to think it but all of the stress and anxious nonsense has you reverting back to that old bad habit of thinking aloud. And now Noct is staring at you with those steely blue eyes and you _want to die_. Ramuh’s never listened to your sorry butt before, but you’re hoping he can change that tonight. The TV is in danger of exploding with your intense, unblinking stare. 

“Yeah?” Noct hums, finally coming over to sit at the foot of the bed along with you. Those black boots of his scuff along the carpeted floor. Once he sits, he looks at you from beneath his dark lashes, that gaze perpetually simmering. “So, even though we’re dating and I’m here with you in your room, there’s no pressure?” 

His question takes you aback. Though you’re privy to how he feels on most issues, you’re obviously no mind reader and are unaware that Noctis has a deep-seated fear of taking advantage of you. With how often you like to brag about “doing your job,” the fact that you’re, for all intents and purposes, his _subordinate_ , is something Noct is highly conscientious of. You hasten to reassure him, “Well, yes. Of course. There’s never any pressure with me, Noctis. This is a partnership of mutual respect, after all.” 

“Sounds a little businesslike, but that’s so like you.” He sighs. That’s _so_ you. That stiff-shirt of a mage who swears like a sailor but can turn into an octogenarian at the drop of a hat. But your words bring him comfort. They reveal to him that you don’t see any sort of power differential in this relationship. Though you may call him Highness, you still view Noct as a friend- an _equal_ \- and he’s glad of it. With a small smile, Noct gibes, “You wanted to say you were _courting_ me. So, I’m not surprised.” 

“Are you making fun of me right now?” Cheeks burn just a tad- a low-grade sort of burn. 

Your brunet pal reclines back onto his hands, turning his gaze off of you and onto the TV with its static menu. “Hm... I’m always making fun of you. But not right now.” He reaches out and plucks the remote from your hand. The two of you stare at the screen as different movies are highlighted. He’s scouring the free section, looking for a comedy. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” A glance is tossed his way when he doesn’t immediately respond. 

“For... For waiting for me,” Noct says it haltingly. All attempts at finding a movie are paused but he doesn’t look away from the screen. You’ll never know how much that meant to him. You’ll never fully understand what it took for him to ask you something like that and to have you say yes. He swallows hard and sits up to look at you. “And for being there for me. For supporting me and being a great friend and even more than that. Thank you, (y/n).” 

Ears ring with how hard you blush right now. Gaze is downcast, almost demure, and for once in your life you’re truly at a loss for words. It isn’t social ineptitude that turns your silver tongue to lead but genuine elation that robs you of cogent thought. You want to default to endearingly calling Noctis a dork, but it doesn’t seem to fit the mood. Sometimes actions speak louder than words. Leaning forward, you gently press your lips to Noct’s to convey how he makes you feel. 

It’s slow at first. All of your kisses (no matter how many times you two kiss each other) start off awkward. A rhythm is sought out in vain- Noct is always just a little bit more eager with kisses and therefore faster, with you being a bit slower on the uptake but happy to try and catch up. His hands come up to your shoulders to remove your sweater with care; that dusky lavender wool sliding down your arms to reveal your pristine white shirt before you pull it off and toss it somewhere on the bed. 

Somehow you both end up shirtless and you wonder where the time is going. Well, you wonder for a split-second before a scalding hot hand grabs your waist and you forget what you’re thinking about. For his part, Noct is loving being able to get all sorts of sighs and gasps and groans out of you. He tries to memorize where you like to be touched- parcels that information away for future reference before you can completely wipe his mind blank when you push him down onto the bed and get on top of him. 

His eyelids flutter at the feeling of you pressed so close to him. Your scent, the taste of your lips, the heat of your body... Noct is so engrossed in all of these intoxicating aspects of you that his steely front falls the second your thigh presses between his legs and he cries out against your mouth. Time stops. Noct blinks rapidly, head cloudy and thoughts murky. Something isn’t right. It takes him a moment to realize that you’re as stiff as a board on top of him and aren’t returning his kisses anymore. 

The prince lets his head fall back onto the bed, cheeks flushed with excitement and eyes glassy. His hair is like a black halo about his head, splayed on the carmine duvet with its golden embellishments. Those blue eyes rove over your face, over your wide eyes. “A-Are you okay?” He asks, voice tight. 

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” you admit, sounding breathless. At your admission, Noct’s cheeks grow even redder to match the duvet. Seeing his embarrassment, you hasten to explain, “I mean, I-I wanted to check first before I- before we do anything else. Are you okay with me...?” You glance down between you two to where the front of your thigh rests against his erection. 

“Yes,” Noct croaks out. The sound of his own needy voice in his ears has the brunet cringing and you’re quick to wipe that look of shame off of his face. Fingers run through his hair, hand cradling the back of his head and then sliding down to cup the back of his neck. Lips find their way back onto his as your other hand unbuttons and unzips his pants. Noct’s anticipation is obvious because his kisses are slow and distracted. The feeling of your lips smiling against his has the royal uttering a soft, self-deprecating chuckle that quickly turns into a choked gasp. 

Your hand is down the front of his pants, fingers deftly wrapping around him to give him one slow, apprehensive stroke. He’s hot in your hand, twitching and already sticky with pre-cum. His boxers restrict your movement before the brunet shimmies his hips and tugs his underwear down along with his pants. The feeling of the smooth, soft duvet against his bare skin combined with the way you run your thumb over the head of his cock with every downstroke has Noct spreading his legs and raising his hips desperately. 

He stopped kissing you a while ago; reduced to biting his bottom lip to stifle throaty moans and whiny gasps. The way he tries to keep himself from uttering a single noise eggs you on. Fingers cease stroking for a moment to fondle Noct’s balls; delicate touches and soft squeezes. That head of dark hair snaps back and Noctis shouts your name like a curse. It takes everything within you not to laugh but the prince feels your grin against his jaw all the same. Now? Now he returns your kisses fervently, like he has something to prove. 

It’s clumsy, awkward, and messy. 

Kisses get more desperate and fevered the closer he gets to orgasm, teeth biting onto your bottom lip before Noct’s mouth latches onto your neck. Blunt fingertips dig into your back, hips rise, thighs quiver. The sudden heat and wetness of a tongue at the juncture of your shoulder and neck along with a grazing of teeth that’s a little more like an actual bite in Noct’s desperation makes you gasp and instinctively grip him harder. That’s gonna leave a mark. And so is the cum that gets on that pretty carmine duvet. 

“Shit,” you swear when you spot the mess you two made. 

“(y/n)!” A voice that isn’t yours calling out? That snaps Noctis out of his dreamy daze faster than a bucket of ice-water to the face. Instinctively, you’re sprawling yourself over your boyfriend’s naked form to protect him. It takes you a second to realize the voice is coming from beyond the hotel’s door. You stare at it as the person continues, “You there? We just got back from the arena and brought back some food! You hungry?” 

Shit! It’s _Prompto_. 

“Uh, no thanks! We just ate!” You call. And then you pause. And then you think long and hard about what you just said. 

There’s a long pause on Prompto’s behalf to accompany yours. You can practically hear the evil smile form on his face. “ _Oh_? Noct’s with ya?” The blond’s voice goes high and lilting and you think you feel Noct’s soul pass on. “I thought he was in the bathroom or something back in the room. Should we wait up for you, Noct, or...?” 

A long-suffering sigh comes from the guy beneath you. Oh, how Prompto’s teases can kill many a mood. “No,” Noct raises his voice slightly to be sure that he’s heard. And do Prompto’s little devil ears detect a difference in his best friend’s voice? Say, like it’s a bit strained and gravelly as if from yelling or grunting? Of course they do. Of course. “I’m, uh, staying the night here. (y/n)’s bed is bigger and more comfortable than ours.” 

Noct gives you a flat look when you snap your head back in his direction, staring down at him with your brow furrowed and mouth slightly agape. He tries not to blush and he should be given props for looking so haughty despite being totally naked and after having had made the noises that he made. Yeah. He’s staying here. What of it? It’s mostly to return the “favor,” of course, but also because the royal _so_ loves your company. 

“Cool, cool. Well, you two have a nice night!” Prompto’s voice breaks on the last word, tinged with laughter. 

Six, just end you and Noct both.

* * *

**Prompto**

Tomorrow is Leviathan’s trial. It has loomed on the horizon for days now as you’ve all hunted daemons and performed menial tasks for the benefit of the people of Altissia. Being everyone’s gofer seems to be the group’s lot in life. Not like _Noctis_ helps things. It’s like the prince lives to gather up as many quests as possible and (back when you were all in mainland Lucis) it was as if he had super-hearing and could hear cries for help even when the Regalia was going 60 mph with the windows up. 

It’s honestly no wonder he sleeps like a damn log. 

But it’s a bit much, really. Even after traveling with these guys for so long, it’s like you can’t quite acclimate to a life on the go. Sure, you were a busy little bee in the Spire, but that was _the Spire_. There’s a huge difference between running errands and having a packed schedule in the confines of an old college versus jetting around an entire kingdom. There’s a huge difference between snarking at magisters and having them snark back at you over research papers versus fighting daemons and animals for your life. 

It’s a miracle you haven’t dropped dead from exhaustion. But dammit if you aren’t getting close. It’s a fact that prompts Prompto to tell his brunet best friend to _knock it off_. 

Well, not in such blunt terms. Prom, having known Noct for years now, knows the right way to approach the royal. It’s big ol’ puppy eyes and dignity-destroying pleas. No one else can do this but Prompto. No one else will gladly and willingly turn themselves into a beggar on your behalf like Prompto. “C’mon! The trial is tomorrow! We _all_ need a break,” the blond entreats the prince. Then he dips his chin and looks up at his best friend from beneath his pale lashes, the morning sun catching his blue eyes and turning them into sapphires. 

“Fine,” Noct sighs, rolling his eyes. He can never say no to that look. It should be outlawed. 

“Woo-hoo!” And then everyone is made aware of the fact that Prompto wasn’t asking for a break for _them_ , but rather one special person in particular. It’s obvious in how he immediately turns from Noct to address you. Agile fingers tug insistently on the sleeve of your sweater like an eager child. “Let’s hang out today, huh? I saw an art museum the day before yesterday and was wondering if you wanted to check it out.” 

It’s 7:15 a.m. and you’re dead tired. Behind the jittery blond, Noct watches on in amusement at how forward his bro is being. It’s a testament to Prompto’s comfort with you. Sure, he’s usually a hell of a flirt, but his confidence is a delicate thing that shatters at the first sign of rejection. If he’d asked you out before only to be met with this tired, flat look that you wear now? He would’ve blushed and made his suggestion out to be a joke. But you two are as thick as thieves now and he smiles softly at the dead-eyed look you shoot him. 

“You’re really tired, huh?” The blond chuckles, reaching out and rubbing your shoulders. He’s rewarded by you leaning forward and face-planting into his shoulder. 

“Ugh.” Damn. You almost sound like you’re an extra in a zombie flick. 

“We’re gonna go head out and... I dunno. Do stuff?” Noct looks to his friends, both of whom have had their eye on certain city attractions and are going to unwittingly run the royal ragged by dragging him around the city. Oh, Noctis would’ve been much better off sticking to menial jobs and nighttime daemon hunting. 

Prom turns his head to glance back at his pal. “Okay! Well, I’ll see you guys tonight. (y/n) and I are gonna...” he trails off, voice reverberating into your chest with each change in intonation. Those kind eyes dance over you and the sharpshooter smiles. The sleepy mage melts into him. “Wanna take a nap first, (y/n)? I don’t think the museum opens 'til ten, anyway. That’ll give you a good three hour nap. Hm?” He gently shakes your shoulders. 

“Gods, please.” Your response is grumbled into his shoulder, earning you a comforting rub on your back. Six, is he trying to make you fall asleep right now? But you’ve noticed, as you’ve got to know Prom and grow close to him, that he’s so damn comfortable. He’s like a human security blanket or a human teddy bear. It’s honestly no wonder he’s the best friend of someone equally or more reticent than you are. It _would_ take the human embodiment of the damn sun to be all chummy with you _and_ Noctis. 

Prompto chuckles, almost as if he can hear your thoughts. “Okay. You guys know our plans. I’ll text ya if anything comes up.” 

“We’re going to have dinner at seven,” Iggy informs and you can practically hear the exasperated expression on his face. This is completely directed at you and your inability to find time for dinner these days. The bespectacled brunet is unaware that you haven’t exactly been dining alone when you’re holed up in your room. “ _Please_ try to make time to attend. We’ll have it at Maagho.” 

“Have fun you two,” Gladio teases, the one guy who saw this relationship coming from a mile away. Practically the moment Prompto accidentally smacked your ass and you turned to stone, Gladiolus _knew_ you two would end up dating... even if he was busy choking to death on ramen noodles. 

Without the need for lofty farewells, the guys head off to fill their day with activities that are supposed to be relaxing in preparation for a taxing day tomorrow. And with such splendid weather, they won’t have a difficult time finding _something_ to do. But you aren’t going to be out and about enjoying the balmy weather. No. For two days straight, you’ve been up at odd hours with the daemon. You’ve been agonizing over the uncertainty of tomorrow, much to the daemon’s malcontent. 

Truthfully, it’s been rather difficult for it to _not_ take your apprehension personally. A million worst-case scenarios have been spouted off by the mage it considers to be its protégé and as the leading authority on magic in Eos, it’s kinda insulting that you would question it so. Sure, the daemon appreciates an inquisitive spirit- curiosity is one of the tenets for open-minded education- but it’s your paranoia that something cataclysmic will happen on your watch that’s prompted the daemon to put its hand to its forehead and sigh many a time. 

It’s this obnoxious (but ultimately well founded) paranoia that makes a day of rest necessary. Such a difficult pill for a busy bee like yourself to swallow. Even as Prompto leads you by the hand back into the hotel, blue skies and bright sunbeams at your back promising a productive day, you agonize over taking a “lazy day.” In the Spire, there were no lazy days because lazy days meant falling grades and the closing of research avenues that were already in short supply in such a niche and competitive field of study. 

And like he can read your mind, the blond squeezes your hand and gently scolds, voice low, “I really wish you would take better care of yourself, (y/n). I know it’s hard, but... you don’t have anything to prove. Or you shouldn’t. You already do so much as Noct’s advisor and though he doesn’t really say it all that much, you should know that he really appreciates you and everything that you do.” Blue eyes shoot you a glance over his shoulder. “We all do. And we all wish you’d stop being so hard on yourself. What we’re doing is a group effort.” 

If his admonishment falls on deaf ears, he doesn’t know. But you give his hand a reassuring squeeze to at least show you heard him even if you might not heed him. You pick up your pace to match Prom’s and drawl, “You know, you don’t need to babysit me. Why don’t you go with the others and after I’ve had some rest- which shouldn’t take long- we’ll go to that museum?” 

“Hm.” Cornflower blue eyes squint at you. “Y’know, I’d rather be sure that you get rest and that you don’t just go to your room and start workin’ on stuff.” 

You blink in turn. “Oh. You want to be with me in my room?” 

“Wh-What?” Now it’s his turn to blink and now his hand is remarkably sweaty in the span of half a second. Props to Prompto for not realizing his desire to watch over you meant that you two would be alone in your hotel room and all of the connotations that spring from that, considering the talks you two have had along with your tendencies to one-up each other with regard to affection. Strangely, it never even crossed his mind. In caretaker mode, some things are missed. “That- You- I’m not-?” 

Aaaaand you broke him again. This has to be the millionth time since you two met. With a sigh, you release Prompto’s poor, sweaty hand and pat him on the back. “I didn’t point it out to be weird or to make you feel awkward. I mean if you don’t want to-” 

“No!” 

“-you don’t have to?” A proper statement turns out like a question in your befuddlement at Prom’s hasty declaration that even gets the concierge to raise his eyebrow. 

“Yeah. No. No, let’s go.”

“Right,” you drawl, straining not to shoot your boyfriend a funny look for his outburst. 

No amount of coffee could make Prompto _this_ jittery. No amount of candy or energy drink or any other sort of stimulant could make his hands shake, his palms sweat, and his heart race the way that _you_ do. All it takes is a smile and a glance and he’s a live wire living in the anticipation of what will come next. Because being alone with you in a room, behind a locked door, holds a plethora of connotations. Especially since you’ve had “the talk.” He knows you’re ready to take another step in this relationship with regard to intimacy. He knows you’re waiting on him. And after giving it a lot of thought, he’s ready, too. 

He’s just been waiting on the right time to tell you this. Each opportunity that presented itself (from rare moments alone by the fire to little jaunts away from the group), he let them slip through his fingers. Prom just felt too awkward and feared he might come across as wishy-washy for coming to this decision so soon after he told you he wasn’t ready. And now his face is aflame for seemingly no reason whatsoever as you two climb the staircase to the second floor where your single-bed hotel room is situated at the end of the corridor. 

Paintings are observed with such seriousness that a passerby might mistake Prom for an art connoisseur. In fact, one woman gives the blond a sidelong glance for his intense stare and sweaty forehead, but she makes no comment as she bustles on by the odd couple. For your part, you’re blissfully unaware of your boyfriend’s plight; too busy trying to keep your eyes open long enough to swipe your keycard and basically fall right through the doorway. The moment the room’s door opens, Prompto is smacked in the face with the odor of herbs. 

“Ugh!” He whines, slapping his hand over his delicate nose. What a great way to shoot those amorous feelings dead in the face. 

Bloodshot eyes glance back at him with contempt. “Smell that? That’s the stench of money.” 

“Gosh, you sound like a drug dealer or something.” An alchemy table has been manufactured out of the coffee table- littered with glass vials and all sorts of pungent plants. Books are sat in neat piles around said table along with scrolls and a rainbow of dried-out pens. Despite the sheer volume of scholarly and magical items strewn about, Prom notes that it’s a _tidy_ mess- just like you. And the source of that odor? There’s a bowl of stale looking paste the color of snot resting on the table. 

You laugh at Prompto’s comment, a sleepy sounding chuckle. “Health potions can be loosely categorized as a drug, yes. So can poisons. Both of which yours truly crafts and sells for a very pretty gil.” 

The sharpshooter is about to make a joke about you turning the hotel room into a meth house when your sweater is slung off and lazily put on a coatrack and you shut the door with your foot. It’s a mundane thing to get so worked up over but it’s the smooth, casual ease of your movements that has the blond swallowing audibly. Dammit. To Prompto Argentum, you’ve always been too cool. It’s like you walked right out of a film noir. All you need is a cigarette between your fingers and a glass of whiskey in the same hand. 

Honestly, it’s strange. It’s like he has a blindspot for when you’re the antithesis of “cool.” Well, that’s not exactly true considering he finds all of your awkward moments infinitely endearing. But it certainly comes across like Prompto doesn’t notice when you mix up words in your haste to convey a thought or when you stammer when he does something cute. You’re his dashing, daring, debonair mage. And, oh, he so has it _bad_ for you. You and your damn leather pants and that white button-up that he’s imagined ripping off of you. 

All of that sexual energy is built up and totally wasted on you. ‘Cause by the time Prompto snaps out of his little daydream of you kicking the door shut and then throwing him down on the bed, you’ve already thrown _yourself_ facedown on the bed. The blond’s jaw clenches, freckles nearly washed out with a crimson blush. Y’know, he’s really grateful that you can’t see the state he’s in right now. ‘Cause if he wants to laugh at himself, he’s sure you actually _would_. And he doesn’t know if he could take that in this moment. 

“Hope you sleep well.” 

“Mmm,” you mumble, not catching that disappointed sigh at the end of his sentence. “C’mere.” Or maybe you do? 

What’s the next step up from being a live wire? Because that’s what Prompto is. Cornflower blue eyes watch attentively as you kick your boots off before dragging yourself into a suitable position on the bed. Then you reach out and pat the spot beside you, head turning slightly so those wicked (but still very sleepy) eyes can peer at him. Boots are tugged off and his vest is placed quite delicately on the nightstand beside the bed (he’s not nearly as careless with his stylish duds as you are). 

“Wanna sleep with me?” You drawl, halfway asleep with how that comfy pillow cups the side of your face. If the hotel staff weren’t so attentive, you would’ve already made plans to steal this pillow. Hell, you still might. As you slowly begin to drift off, you wonder how much this pillow costs so that you can set aside gil for it. Can you just buy one at the front desk? Will they let you do that? 

“Yeah,” Prompto finally answers you. And he does. In every sense. But Prom knows what you mean right now. The shutterbug settles down on the bed beside you, turning to watch your eyelids flutter shut, a content smile on your face. After a moment, he props himself up so he can reach down and pull the turned-down duvet up to cover the two of you. Breathing slows down and evens out. A hand reaches out to gently brush pale knuckles across your cheek. Your eyelids move slightly in response, brow furrowing and lower lip pouting. 

Prompto smiles to himself, expression completely and totally besotted. He’s doomed. He really, really is. 

The actual passage of time and the perceived passage of time haven’t been in equilibrium for a while now within the group. You’ve only known everyone for a short time yet it feels like years. Weeks? Months? No. Like _centuries_. But living closely with other people will do that. Having those people save your life and vice versa? That does it, too. Many lifelong companionships pale in comparison to the bond that’s grown between all of you, particularly between Prompto Argentum and (y/n) Iovita. 

The relationship that he never thought would ever happen is thrust in the face of anyone who gives him the chance to do it. Like a parent, he’s so proud of each and every single one of your accomplishments- even the minor ones. When you find a debased coin in the middle of the desert, he talks about it off-and-on for _hours_ ; finds a way to bring it up in conversation to boast about how perceptive you are. And though you may beg him to stop, all abashed, it’s not like you don’t do the same exact thing. 

Prompto finds his greatest fan in you. His cheeks turn pink when you lament over the fact that _all_ of his photos can’t be saved. He kisses you hard when you casually hand him a memory card out of nowhere. The shutterbug is so very tickled when you offer to be his assistant when he wants to do something “interesting” with his photos- namely dropping leaves for him to photograph or doing some fancy magic to work as some sort of filter that only Prompto could think of. 

That taciturn mage is putty in his hands and the feeling is definitely mutual. 

It’s such a shame that you two get on the group’s collective nerve. The thing is, you’re just both so damn _sappy_ that it’s _disgusting_. You’re that couple that your single friends loathe because you won’t shut up about each other. “Look what (y/n) found! They’re so helpful and wonderful!” “Did you guys see this photo Prompto took? It belongs in a museum.” They all just want you two to chill out. They wonder when this damn honeymoon phase of your relationship will end. The bad news for them is: It won’t. Not even when things are horrible. 

Because you’re kindred spirits. As cliché as it sounds you both know what it feels like to be cast aside by people and to never feel like you’re good enough. The two of you possess a sensitive quality that allows you to connect on a deeper level than most people. Looks are always meaningful and you’re each other’s greatest advocate. And, boy, does Prompto love you so much for it. To have someone constantly come to his defense? Someone other than Noctis, of course. And you’ve never had that before, either. Aside from your mother and Dru. 

Sometimes, like now, Prompto gets sad when he looks at you. There’s this deep sorrow in your eyes that he wants to take away and he fears that he never can. And when you look tired? When you’re sick? He gets teary and it really hits him just how much he loves you. Gods, he loves you so, so much. Fingertips dance over the bridge of your nose, ghost across your lips. He rests his palm against the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. Prompto loves you so, so much. 

“Have you been staring at me this whole time?” You suddenly ask, lips slightly quirked and eyes still closed. Prompto freezes like a deer in the headlights, eyes as wide as saucers and freckled cheeks blazing red. 

“N-No!” He answers defensively, arm curling back toward his chest like a salted slug. 

“You so were,” you continue to tease, grinning now, eyes mere slivers. “My, my. What a pervert you are, Prompto Argentum.” 

“My, my. What a ridiculous person you are, (y/n) Iovita,” he rebukes hotly. Gods, can he melt into this bed? 

When you prop yourself up on your elbow, he hopes that he can do just that. Such a condescending look from his favorite mage. And then you sigh, “No nap for me today. I can’t fall asleep with the feeling of you watching me.” 

“I wasn’t watching you!” Prom lies. He’s positively mortified. Gosh, was his staring really that obvious? Is it _always_ that obvious? Yes. Yes, it is. 

“Uh-huh,” you hum before sitting up fully and fixing Prompto with a teasing look. “Were you _not_ staring at me for a reason? Like, say, you have something to say to me?” 

Sometimes you’re too perceptive for your own good. Reading people is like second nature to you, considering who you grew up around. And Prompto Argentum is an open book. He’s never disingenuous which makes him like a book parents read to their toddlers. Not to say he’s simple-minded or anything of the sort, it’s just that he isn’t some conniver with nothing but ulterior motives. His presence is refreshing. Because even his lies, which are few and far between, are harmless things. 

That includes the lie he tells you now. Big blue eyes blink rapidly (one of his tells) and he parts his lips to awkwardly confess, “I- uh,” stuttering is another tell, “was just wondering something. I’ve wondered it for a while and I know it probably feels like I’ve asked you a million times but... How _does_ your magic work? I mean, I’ve listened to all of your-" He abruptly cuts himself off before he can make himself out to be a massive creeper. Or what he believes a massive creeper would be like. 

“Listened to all of my what? Finish that sentence, Blondie.” You’ve reclined back onto the bed now, nestled against the overstuffed pillows in preparation for whatever this chat holds. The carmine duvet is comfortable enough but it’s beginning to trap yours and Prom’s collective body heat and turn the bed into an oven. So you adjust yourself and settle atop the blankets. You’ve already sussed out that this conversation is a ruse. Doesn’t mean you aren’t going to let yourself enjoy the ride. 

“Uh... Well, whenever you tutor Noct, I kinda listen in on all of your lessons.” 

“You little sneak,” you snort, “I should start charging you. My lessons aren’t free.” 

“Aw, c’mon!” Prompto throws himself down even further into the bed if that’s possible. His cheek is nestled against a pillow, a cheesy grin on his face. “You’re a great teacher!” 

"Flattery will get you nowhere,” you sniff. “Anyway, to answer your question about my magic, I just will it and it happens. There must be intent with all magic." 

Which is what makes punishments for misuse of magic so harsh. Why does Ramuh (allegedly) judge magical infractions so harshly? Because they’re never really accidents. Magic is never a flight of fancy. It has to be willed. Feel rage, that’s fine. Feel rage and will it to set a man on fire? Mages can’t plead ignorance, least of all Iovitas. It’s like a crime of passion. Yes, a judge will acknowledge that the man killed his cheating lover in a fit of rage. Does that erase the murder? No. 

It’s simply a way of denoting that he let his passions get the best of him and he failed to be rational. If _you_ fail to be a rational person, it can escalate to a bit more than a stabbed lover. Tacitus the Stormbearer, your grandfather, was such a reserved man. His anger, his temper, was saved specifically for battle. He brought down Niff airships by the dozens because he let his passions take control in those brief moments. And that’s why someone like you is so very uptight- so very cautious. Nobody is left looking good when an Iovita has a hissy fit. 

"You're so cool.”

At Prompto’s fanboying, you break out of your reverie and snap, "Oh, stop." 

"You _are_ cool. No! _Amazing_!" 

"Why are you like this?" You groan even though you totally know why he’s like this. Prompto Argentum is just too damn nice. Plus, he’s deflecting like mad. As long as he has you all flustered and bashful, he thinks you’ll let him off the hook. ‘Cause he knows that _you_ know that this wasn’t what he wanted to talk to you about. 

"Because I'm awesome," he croons, nose in the air. 

"Mmhm. I know you are." 

It’s his turn to blush. Sure he may jokingly bluster about what a great guy he is, but you never fail to make his face turn red when you validate him. "See? Only a cool person would say that." 

"Or a sane person. Someone would have to be out of their mind to not think you’re awesome." 

He’s an inhuman shade of red. Actually, he kinda matches the duvet. Tentatively, Prompto sits up and scoots himself closer to you. One arm wraps around you to pull you close, his forearm resting across your collarbone. His chin settles on your shoulder, breath on your neck. The tension in his form is obvious; body stiff against your side. Suddenly his camera is in your face. “This’ll make a great picture.” Breath is hot in your ear, causing you to inadvertently shiver. Prom’s grip on you tightens in response. 

“I’d ask if you _seriously_ kept your damn camera on you this whole time, but obviously that’s a stupid question.” Eyes flicker over where Prompto primes his finger on the shutter release. 

The blond laughs and crows, “Say, ‘chocobos’!” 

Long after the photo has been taken, Prompto continues to hold on to you, admiring the picture. The two of you look quite cozy, the bedroom setting conveying intimacy. That thought has you clearing your throat, sounding highly dignified. “Now that the daily selfie quota has been fulfilled, I’m out.” Throwing your legs over the side of the bed, you sigh, “I’m gonna take a quick shower and then we can get brunch or something before heading out to that museum.” 

Prom’s assent is mumbled, blue eyes attentively watching you get up and head into the bathroom after gathering clothes. The sound of water cascading down into the porcelain tub has the blond getting on his phone to find places to eat. There’s a squirmy feeling in his gut. It’s hard to ignore, only getting worse and worse the longer your shower lasts. In the bathroom, you turn your face up to the warm spray of water, hoping it will help wake you up. Blindly reaching forward, you turn down the hot water so all you feel are icy pinpricks. 

Ah. _Now_ you’re awake. 

Goosebumps break out along your skin and you hasten to turn off the shower, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and _definitely_ shaking. Gods, you’re shaking like mad. Guess Gladio can be right about some things: Cold showers are the fastest way to wake yourself up. Hands tremble the whole time you dry off and pull on your underwear. You’ve just started buttoning your shirt when you hear a dramatic wail of, “ _No_!” 

You’ve basically busted down the bathroom door to propel yourself into the bedroom. “What?!” You ask, breathless and heart hammering. Head whips around, eyes wide in an attempt to spot the threat. A fireball is primed in your hand, raring to go. “What happened?!” 

On the bed, Prom is on his back and frowning at his phone’s screen. “I’ve got some bad news. That art museum I mentioned? It’s closed on Mondays and Tuesdays for the exhibits to be rotated.” The blond turns his head to make sad puppy eyes at you and nearly chokes on his spit. There you are, standing in nothing but your underwear and a mostly unbuttoned shirt. One might think he’s never seen you in any state of undress with how he forgets to breathe. Six, the guy has seen you without a shirt on before. Well, he saw your _back_. 

“Oh.” It’s difficult to hide your irritation but at the same time you want to laugh at this blond dork. With a shake of your hand, the fireball dissipates with a hiss and a puff of smoke. Heart still pounds in your chest, straining against your ribs. Like someone with a bad heart, you put your hand on your chest and sag against the wall beside the bathroom doorway. “That’s too bad.” Boy, you wanna go off. With the imperial threat, Prom always forgets that dramatic shouts like that can be taken the wrong way. 

“Y-Yeah, tell me about it.” Prom is still gawking, unbeknownst to you, but he keeps his gaze off of your bare thighs and your underwear. That searing gaze remains steadfastly on your face. What an exercise in restraint. 

“It’s not the end of the world. A day in sounds like exactly what I need if you’re okay with that.” This is pointed out a bit acidly. You’re still mildly miffed that your chest aches over how hard your heart pounded at the _mere idea_ that Prompto was in any sort of danger. That short burst of adrenaline has you feeling fatigued all over again. So much for getting rest. Your hands are back to shaking which makes buttoning up your shirt a million times more difficult. 

“A whole day in with my favorite mage? How could I say no to that?” Prom props himself up on his elbows after rolling over onto his stomach. It’s such an awkward and strategic change in position. His chin is cupped in the palm of his hand. 

“Pretty easily, actually,” you gibe, masking your frustration with yourself when you realize you’re halfway buttoned up only to find that you missed a button along the way and need to redo your work. 

“No. Never.” Not once have his eyes left the sight of your fingers deftly working on the buttons of your shirt. There’s a peek of your stomach and chest. His throat is tight. His chest is tight. Six, he needs to tell you before he misses his chance and makes a total ass out of himself. Enough playing coy. Enough crippling himself with baseless fears of a judgment from you that he rationally knows will never come. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you, (y/n). About something we’ve talked about before.” 

“Is that so?” Finally, you’re done struggling with damn buttons. You sit on the bed, legs crossed. Are you doing this on purpose? 

“Yeah. I just wanted to tell you that... I’m ready.” Those piercing blue eyes bore into you. After he says it, he bizarrely becomes acutely aware of everything in the room from the décor to the faint humming of the A/C. In your brief silence, he busies himself with pointless thoughts about how tacky the decorations are for a hotel that’s so expensive to stay in. I mean, red bedsheets and curtains, white floors, _and_ black leather furniture? It’s like a throwback to what was in style over a decade ago. Dated décor at _these_ prices? 

“Ready? Ready for wh- Oh.” You level him with a serious look. “Are you sure?” It was just a short time ago that you two had a serious discussion about your relationship. He’d made himself clear that he wasn’t ready to become sexually intimate with you and you respected his position. You still do, which is why you’re hesitant. Still, his cheeks flush and you hurry to reassure him, “Not that I’m trying to infantilize you or anything. I just want to be certain that _you’re_ certain.” 

“I am. I was just... sorta hesitant to tell you because I didn’t want you thinking I only changed my mind because I felt pressured." Pure word vomit; hastily spoken before his nerve can be lost. "‘Cause I don’t! I trust you. I really do. The thing is... I just have some issues that I need to work out. Y’know? And I’m ready but... with one stipulation.” 

“Okay. That’s fine. What are your conditions?” 

He says it softly. “No lights.” 

“That- You’re worried about _that_?” You stop yourself from laughing when you see how grave his expression is; brow puckered and blue eyes severe. “Prompto, sweetheart, loads of people have sex with the lights off. And I know what you’re worried about and I want to assure you as many times as possible that you don’t need to worry about any sort of shaming from me. Lights off it is.” 

“Thanks...” His smile is faint and his blush is vivid. He reaches forward to put his hand over yours. “Do _you_ have any conditions?” 

“Um... Not off the top of my head. I mean, one thing’s for sure is that if you feel uncomfortable, tell me. Be vocal. Don’t be afraid that I’m going to be disappointed or anything if you want to stop or don’t want to do something. Okay?” 

“Okay.” 

“Do you wanna do it now?” You ask slowly, eyebrows raised. Six, you hope you aren’t coming across like some sorta perv. It’s just... why else would he bring it up? 

“Yes.” Gods, he tries to be cool but in his efforts to be cool he’s totally _un_ cool because he blurts that “cool” response practically the second that that question leaves your lips. His response isn’t even gold-star, “you tried,” worthy. But if he comes across overeager with his response, you almost one-up him by scrambling off of the bed to draw the curtains and then bustling across the room to get to the light-switch. The decorative rugs are plush and the floor is ice cold. Thank the gods you don’t get a charley horse. That’d be an instant mood killer. 

“All right, honeybun. The lights are about to go off.” 

“Honeybun?” The shutterbug snickers at you, flopping onto his back and finally sitting up. Those blue eyes glint evilly. “Oh, wow.” 

“What? Only _you_ are able to use godsawful nicknames?” You huff defensively. 

“You still hung up on the Snugglebutt fiasco?”

“Noct still calls me that from time to time, so yeah. I am.”

Prom chuckles and rolls his eyes. “He’s the worst.” 

“And somehow you’re even worse. Go figure.” The lights are flicked off without further ado. It’s almost as if that switch controls the atmosphere, too. Those are some five-star curtains, blacking out the sun, but a sliver of light peeks through where you didn’t fully draw them together. 

“Whoa. It’s dark.” Prompto’s voice sounds so small, almost muted in the darkness. 

“Yeah. It’s ‘cause I turned off the lights. That usually happens.” 

He laughs but you can hear the tension in his voice. “Shut _up_.” But he stops laughing when that sliver of light reveals to him those agile fingers going to work on those buttons once more. You stand there on purpose, letting that pale light illuminate your work, letting it expose you to him as that stark white linen falls to the floor. He’s nothing more than a silhouette but you know this limited light is probably more than he’d like. It’s what has you making your way back to the window to pull those curtains firmly together. 

And in the darkness you hear movement; the sliding of a body out from beneath smooth sheets, footsteps muted against ornately patterned rugs. And you feel him behind you, his body heat sweltering in the coolness of the room. There’s a shift of fabric, a distinct metallic sound of a buckle and a zipper coming undone, and then his bare chest presses against your back. Warm arms wrap around you and you lean back into Prompto’s body, a thrill running up your spine at the feeling of his erection. 

Fingertips dance across the front of your underwear, pressing down and adding pressure in just the right places. The way you sigh out into the air and push your hips forward makes his blood buzz. Slow kisses are placed on your neck, his free hand coming up to tweak your nipples. He’s getting himself worked up, his breath coming in short, excited bursts and his movements picking up in speed and intensity. Prompto ruts himself against your rear now and you realize he isn’t wearing his underwear. 

“We’ll take it slow today,” you inform him, a tremor in your voice. “Baby steps. Nothing too crazy.” 

“Yeah,” Prompto breathes. 

And then his hand is shoved down the front of your underwear, going to work. He loves how you fold in on yourself with a gasp, one hand gripping his hip and the other locked on his forearm to the point that he's sure there will be bruises. Lips press against your neck, his body bending forward with you. Declarations of love are whispered in your ear, eyelids fluttering and hips bucking into you. He loves that it's as if his hand between your thighs and his arm across your chest are the only things keeping you upright. 

It's awkward and unskilled; his pace is without rhythm, fingers occasionally slipping, pressure never consistent. It makes you come undone into his hand, over his fingers, all too quickly. He enjoys the way you twitch under his fingers, the way your body shakes against him, and he wonders if you'd let him take pictures next time. Maybe record it for later. Then Prompto realizes how weird that sounds. Is it too weird? He’ll ask you later and won’t look you in the eye when he does. He’s the one who asked to have the lights off, after all. 

The sound of blood pounding in your ears is all you can hear for a moment. Your body feels weighted down, sluggish and slumped against Prompto, his chest rising and stuttering against you. On jelly legs, you turn around in his arms and kiss him hard. Teeth accidentally click against his and you back off momentarily to apologize before he cuts you off with another more insistent kiss. Prompto stumbles back and you follow him, tripping over his discarded clothes as the two of you blindly make your way to the bed. 

Giggles and soft swears fill the air, the bed only found when the backs of Prom’s knees make contact with it and he’s sent tumbling back with you on top of him. Immediately you’re making your way down his body, trailing kisses and nipping with your teeth. Prompto gasps and squirms, voice going higher the lower you go. You have to keep your eyes shut or else this becomes disorienting. Six, but you want to see him. For his sake, for his comfort, you content yourself with feeling every inch of him with your lips and your hands. 

He’s soft and warm. He’s strained moans and soft cries. Prompto’s back arches when he feels your warm breath between his legs. Prompto yells out when wet heat traces over his tip. Cheeks flush hot as a chuckle floats up to him and he can practically hear the impish smile in your voice. Just as he’s about to phlegmatically scold you for making fun of him, Prompto groans the second your mouth closes around him, fingers curling in your hair and pulling to the point that you grunt. 

"Sorry!" He yelps, immediately letting you go, face so hot that he thinks he might explode at any second. 

You release him and he whines at the loss of contact. "I should warn you that I've only seen this done in movies." 

"Wha-What kinda movies did you watch in the Spire?" He sounds like he's trying to engage you in dirty talk, but you don't trust yourself not to laugh. 

"The kind other students had hidden in secret folders. But I'm a nosy mage and I'm always looking to build up my skill set-" 

"(y/n), _please_. I love your humor but you're killin' me here.”

"Fine," you grumble but you’re grinning at the whiny inflection in his voice. 

Doing this in the dark? Prompto begins to second-guess his suggestion. Sure, it gives him peace of mind to not have to worry about not living up to any expectations with regard to his physique, but... He so desperately wants to see you going down on him. Those blue eyes squeeze shut and he can see you there. He can see those wicked eyes turned up to him as you take him down to the base and graze your tongue along his balls. He can see the muscles in your arms flex as you brace yourself on his thighs and bob your head up and down. 

Prompto is excessively, dramatically loud; head thrown back and fingers curling into the duvet. His thighs quiver on either side of your head and, gods, is your face on fire. With a wet pop, you release him and ask, “I don’t mean to sound rude, but are you playing this up?” 

“N-No.” He pants, pulling you up to kiss you messily, too much tongue and a lot of sweat. “You’re so good, (y/n). _You’re so good_.” 

It’s a mantra that’s repeated as if he can’t say anything else. He says it over and over and over, voice rising until it’s so shrill that you’re certain he can be heard outside of the room. He cums with a wail, hands on the back of your head as you swallow. You massage his thighs, pepper them with delicate kisses while he regains his bearings. Now it’s your turn to whisper declarations of love in the dark. Prompto can’t keep his hands off of you as you crawl up the bed and settle down beside him. 

“I love you.”

"I love you more."

* * *

**Ignis**

Tomorrow is Leviathan’s trial. It has loomed on the horizon for days now as you’ve all hunted daemons and performed menial tasks for the benefit of the people of Altissia. Being everyone’s gofer seems to be the group’s lot in life. Not like _Noctis_ helps things. It’s like the prince lives to gather up as many quests as possible and (back when you were all in mainland Lucis) it was as if he had super-hearing and could hear cries for help even when the Regalia was going 60 mph with the windows up. 

It’s honestly no wonder he sleeps like a damn log. 

But it’s a bit much, really. Even after traveling with these guys for so long, it’s like you can’t quite acclimate to a life on the go. Sure, you were a busy little bee in the Spire, but that was _the Spire_. There’s a huge difference between running errands and having a packed schedule in the confines of an old college versus jetting around an entire kingdom. There’s a huge difference between snarking at magisters and having them snark back at you over research papers versus fighting daemons and animals for your life. 

It’s a miracle you haven’t dropped dead from exhaustion. And you’re so uncomplaining that you just might. You’re lucky that Ignis Scientia has a damn user guide for (y/n) Iovita. 

Iggy can tell that you’re tired and it goes beyond the obvious physical indicators that you’ve been running yourself ragged. Yes, even though Ignis is well aware of the fact that Noctis has been obsessively taking on quests, it’s as plain as day to your fellow advisor that a lot of your fatigue is self-inflicted. Not that he analyzes every breath you take under a microscope or anything, but the fact that you went out of your way to rent your own hotel room after the two of you had that bizarre talk during your first night in Altissia speaks volumes. 

Add in the fact that nobody else is nearly as tired as you, and it’s clear that you’re _yet again_ entering that cycle of bad behavior; of restless nights pouring over books and taking in way too much caffeine. And as he watches you, lips pursed in displeasure at the sight of your bloodshot eyes, Ignis turns his verdant gaze onto Noctis and suggests, “Perhaps today would be better spent recuperating? We have been quite busy these past few days, after all.” At his childhood friend’s questioning look, Iggy adds, “It’s best to be rested for tomorrow.” 

And how could Noctis argue with that? Besides, it’s not as if the royal is totally unaware of the state that you’re currently in. You haven’t even attempted to steal any of the food off of his plate, for crying out loud! Those intense blue eyes flicker over you the second Iggy finishes arguing his case and the bespectacled brunet expertly snuffs out an instinctive blush. Oh, that old friend knows him so well. It’s a bit more difficult to be discreet when you and Ignis are constantly surrounded by the others. 

However, the surprising thing is that _you_ aren’t the one who gives away the fact that you and Ignis are in a relationship. You’ve been a stone wall. During the initial courtship phase, you were almost constantly choking on food and drinks- stammering and being a general fool. But after you came to an agreement with Ignis to keep things under wraps? Well, you’ve certainly put forth a great effort to be the epitome of cool indifference. No more blushing, no more stuttering, no more unfortunate choking. 

_Ignis_ is the one with all the tells. Because he’s just too damn caring. 

Not to say he didn’t look after you _before_ you two entered into a romantic relationship. But it’s _because_ you’re in a relationship that he now knows he pretty much has carte blanche to be your unyielding caregiver. Plus, the older brunet has always had a more romantic side that gets in the way of his own recommendation of keeping the relationship a secret. A wildflower on the edge of your plate at dinner, the cupping of your cheek after you’re revived in battle, and the minutiae of your interactions in general have given him away to Noctis. 

“Sure thing,” drawls Noct. He continues on with his breakfast like normal, poking at his eggs, full after filling up on waffles and bacon. He and Gladiolus were the only two to order a hearty breakfast while Ignis and Prompto chose to dine on fruit, some toast, and coffee. And you? Blue and green lasers shoot at you from across the table, so accusatory at your pittance of a breakfast: Black coffee and plain yogurt to soften the blow on your stomach. Usually you’re in the same eating league as the prince and the Shield. Not so these past couple of days. 

As this rather one-sided staring contest continues, the tension in the room’s atmosphere amps up by about a million degrees. Gladio and Prom exchange perplexed glances before getting up and sitting in front of the TV to begin their lazy day on the right foot with funny movies (well, humor is subjective, Gladdy laughs but Prom mostly cringes for the duration of the film). The way that you’re so slow on the uptake with regard to today’s change of plans, still stirring around your plain yogurt that tastes strongly of artificial sweetener, irritates Ignis. 

Noctis stands up from the table which _finally_ gets your attention- honestly, Iggs was thinking it was gonna take an earthquake from Titan to snap you out of your yogurt daze. Looking up at your brunet friend, you wonder dreamily, “What’s going on?” 

“Break day.” That head of shaggy dark hair nods toward the bed he’s been sharing with Prompto- the one you used to share with them before you jumped ship. It’s apparent that neither Noct nor Prom knows how to make a bed like you since it’s all lumpy. “I’m goin’ back to bed.” 

“Not on a full stomach,” Ignis tuts, thinking back to the last time Noct got sick by sleeping while full. It wasn’t pretty. He shoots Noct a threatening look over his cup of coffee, just daring him to go to sleep right now. If he does, the prince will be the one stuck cleaning up vomit off of carpet. 

Ignoring Noct’s pout and the subtle vomit drama, you stand up as well and stretch, reaching up and up for the ceiling until your joints crack and pop. Refreshed, you let your arms fall limply to your sides. “Though sleep certainly sounds good, I’m going to capitalize on this moment of free time. I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me.” And then you’re gone. Just like that. You regurgitate something that sounds like it was written on a cue card, with all of the emotion and energy of a reanimated corpse, and then you turn and exit stage left. 

“You gonna go after them?” 

Ignis barely even flinches at the sudden voice of his friend by his side. He’d been so busy frowning at the hotel room’s door that he hadn’t noticed Noct come back over to the table and plop himself down beside him. A glance reveals to the tactician that the prince is feigning disinterest, phone pulled out with something other than King’s Knight flashing on the screen. The prince manages to finagle the pieces to where five red pieces are aligned and he whispers a triumphant “Yes!” to himself before clearing the board. 

“How (y/n) chooses to spend their free time is their business.” 

That response earns Iggy an unamused side-eye from Noct. That pale finger continues tap tap tapping away on the screen, not missing a single beat. “Yeah. But I wonder if they bothered stocking their room with food since they moved? I don’t think they’ve been eating.” Y’know, there’s something to be said for the skillful way that Noctis knows how to say the exact right thing to set Ignis’ teeth on edge. Even before you and Ignis were dating, to an outsider it might’ve seemed like Noctis was pulling for a relationship to form. 

He was very subtle. He’d make himself seem like an ass sometimes by refusing to go shopping with Iggy just so you two would be alone. It’s just that yours and Iggy’s mutual interest has always been rather obvious to Noct. Ignis’ stoicism, that perfect veneer of propriety, is easily read by Noctis. Every little nuance, every disturbance in that collected visage is noticed. Really, it’s a testament to how much Ignis means to Noct. So you should take it as a wonderful sign that the raven-haired royal was rooting for you, silently as he may have been. 

“I’m certain (y/n) has all that they need. They’ve never been one to be without some type of food on their person,” Ignis notes, sipping his coffee coolly when in reality he’s beginning to sweat. He doesn’t for a second believe that you’ve a fully-stocked kitchen in your damn hotel room. And the type of food that you normally carry around? Gummy bears? Chips? Energy drinks to be sipped through red vines right from the can? Ignis has to stop himself from grinding his teeth. Why did he fall in love with a damn child masquerading as an adult? 

There’s a ghost of a smile on Noct’s lips. “Everything okay, Specs? You’re lookin’ a little sweaty.” 

Ignis clears his throat, very much aware of the thin sheen of sweat on his brow. “Actually, now that you mention it, it might be best for me to stop by (y/n)’s for a spell.” The taller brunet stands and Prompto is immediately coming over to bus the table since today is his day for cleanup duty. After giving Prom an appreciative smile, Ignis addresses everyone. “I’m going out and I’ll be back before dinner. Remember that we’re all going to Maagho, so dress accordingly.” And then, like you, he’s gone. 

But he doesn’t immediately head for your room. No. Ignis busies himself with purchasing all manner of groceries to prepare a wholesome meal along with some more luxurious items. _Then_ he’s headed back to the hotel to your room. All the while, you’re sat before your makeshift alchemy table with the daemon observing the way you expertly crush cloves with the flat of your blade. Everyone would be dismayed but ultimately unsurprised to find out how their favorite mage spends a “lazy” day. 

As Ignis climbs the staircase leading to the floor that your room is on, his heart begins to flutter anxiously. He fears he might be crossing some personal boundary with his plans, knowing how hardheaded and independent you are. Ignis knows that from the outset you won’t be too enthused by the idea that he’s taking your well-being into his own (more than capable) hands. But honestly he figures that if _he_ doesn’t, _who_ will? Certainly not you, that’s for damn sure. 

You’ve already proven time and time again that you can’t be trusted to keep your health in check. It’s a common shortcoming of many a Spire mage, or so he’s heard. Apparently that rigorous academic atmosphere doesn’t allow for such trivial things as rest. There are reports that fainting spells and mental breakdowns are a common occurrence in the Spire of Duscae. Somehow, even with that being public knowledge, people still compete to gain entry into such an institution. 

And Iggy knows better than most how you carry that “academic atmosphere” around with you. You can take the mage out of the Spire and all that. Though usually a well-rounded adult, you tend to fall back on some extremely detrimental and childish habits when you’re in a research rut. Your diet leaves a lot to be desired, your sleep schedule is severely lacking, and your mood suffers for it even though you try to put up a front. With this in mind, he’s fully expecting you to snap at him like a crabby little junk-food and caffeine-addicted mage. And he has all the patience in the world. 

Standing before your door, Ignis Scientia takes a breath, adjusts the bags in his arms, and then knocks primly. 

The actual passage of time and the perceived passage of time haven’t been in equilibrium for a while now within the group. You’ve only known everyone for a short time yet it feels like years. Weeks? Months? No. Like _centuries_. But living closely with other people will do that. Having those people save your life and vice versa? That does it, too. Many lifelong companionships pale in comparison to the bond that’s grown between all of you, particularly between you and Ignis Scientia. 

He’s the only one who can see beyond that ice-cold veneer. He’s the only one that you allow yourself to be truly vulnerable around. 

But with regard to vulnerability, that only applies to _you_. The daemon, on the other hand, purses its lips at the door as you pantomime frantically to try and get it to go away. It’s irritated at having its time with you (and its time as Orion) infringed upon but it’s also quite difficult to ignore the fact that you want it gone. After a moment, the daemon does just that, slipping into the shadows and leaving after you’ve sweated for a century. Once you’ve conjured up an affable smile and wiped your brow, you make your way to the door and open it. 

“(y/n), I- Oh, _honestly_?” Iggy fusses, bringing his hand up to his nose, knuckles just barely brushing up under it, cutting off his own greeting. That delicate nose scrunches up immediately upon you opening the door. The entire suite stinks of clove, garlic, and something musty. Six, are you working on another poultice? You’ve already made yourself rather infamous in the group for your smelly, multi-purpose poultices that even _Ignis_ has a hard time being polite enough to use. 

At the sight of your boyfriend and his disgusted expression, you huff and point out, “Herbalism is an invaluable skill.” 

“I don’t doubt that.” His voice is nasally and for that you don’t offer to help him carry in his bags. No matter. The brunet wasn’t going to ask, anyway. 

Stepping aside, you allow Ignis into the room, eyeing the bulging paper bags in his arms. He makes his way to the kitchenette, admiring the room all the while. It’s a suite and a lavish one at that. Though Ignis assumes that it was paid for using your personal funds which have been earned from the selling of potions, he’s wrong. In fact, all you needed to do was enchant something for the owner. It was the concierge who informed you of the offer and it wasn’t as though it was a bizarre occurrence. 

When people first started finding enchanted items, it didn’t take them long to figure out where they were coming from. The enchantments all had something in common, after all: (y/n) Iovita was spotted in the area at the time. Little do you know that there’s a market for such trinkets and collectors of magical artifacts have already discerned your particular “mark.” The magic around the enchanted items is strong, has a sort of “earthiness” to it that’s redolent of many Iovitas while also possessing a distinct vibrancy in energy. 

The enchantments, no matter how odd they may be, are resilient and not easily undone. It’s clear to scholars that you studied Lumis the Enchanter rigorously for his enchantments have lasted centuries and yours are reminiscent of his in that way. However, the owner of the hotel has no intentions of selling the fountain pen that you enchanted to sing the chocobo theme on the fly. Like many people who happen to stumble across the things that you leave behind, it will be cherished. It’s a little odd, really. 

The more “useless” the enchantment might seem, the more people covet it. Because in that way, they feel like they can get to know you. They feel close to the Mage... It’ll just be a little difficult for a withered old man to tell his granddaughter that _yes_ , the famed Arch-Mage of the King of Light _did_ enchant this dried-out fountain pen years ago and surely they had a reason for making it sing. And _yes_ , grandpa does have a massive collection and _no_ he doesn’t know why the pocket watch screams at night but there’s probably a reason for that, too. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your unannounced visit?” You finally ask, shutting the door by leaning against it. Teeth grit together. Shame begins to creep up on you. Because, boy, this room is a freakin’ _mess_. It may not be at Noct levels of messiness with food wrappers and water bottles everywhere at various levels of emptiness, but it’s definitely uncharacteristic of you to have items strewn about the floor. If your mother were here, she’d stare you into oblivion, conveying through that expression alone that you’d better get your act together. 

Ignis carefully places the bags on the kitchen counter and turns around. An alchemy table has been manufactured out of the coffee table- littered with glass vials and all sorts of pungent plants. Books are sat in neat piles around said table along with scrolls. Despite the sheer volume of scholarly and magical items strewn about, Iggy notes that at least it’s a _tidy_ mess- just like you. It’s the only positive note. Because he immediately spots the source of the putrid odor on the alchemy table: A jar full of some murky, viscous liquid. 

“Has that spoiled?” He wonders, brushing aside your question. 

“ _No_ ,” you snap defensively, cheeks warming up at his insinuation. I mean, it doesn’t smell _that_ bad, does it? Well, your question is answered by Iggy sauntering over to the double-doors leading out onto the balcony and throwing them open. Honestly, he’s surprised birds don’t start dropping from the sky. A nice breeze makes the filmy curtains billow and helps circulate the air in the room. That mustiness is done away with, the room filling with the aroma of baking bread from a nearby shop and the crisp scent of fresh water. 

Ignis enjoys the feeling of sunshine on his face before he rounds on you and orders, “Sit on that bed and stay put.” He points rather pointlessly, considering there’s only the one bed. Still, it’s rather effective because you find yourself sitting like a well-trained dog all the same. While you’re sitting rigidly, Ignis returns to the kitchenette and the bags he placed on the counter. He picks one up after rummaging through it and then he walks right on by you and into the bathroom. You aren’t spared a single glance. 

Confused, you lean over and look back, trying to see what he’s up to. Craning your neck, you spy a glass jar and... a candle? All you get is an amused look for your spying before the door is shut. 

“Ignis? What are you doing in my bathroom?” You call, falling onto your back so you can stare up at the ceiling, seeing as you can’t see through walls. 

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Ignis replies, voice a bit muted. You can hear his smile. All things considered, you’re relieved because you know if he wanted to Iggy could’ve given you hell for the state of your room. Though there was a catty remark on the tip of his tongue, he held back. Today is dedicated to helping you _relax_ , after all. The brunet doesn’t want to start things off with an argument about hygiene. You’ve flopped onto your stomach now, propped up on your elbows and staring at the door in anticipation. 

Ignis Scientia is a sweating, flustered mess. Who knew so much panic could fit in such a small room? All he’s asking of himself is total perfection. That’s not a lot, right? Hands rummage through the paper bag, handling tea candles with care and attempting to place them on the edge of the tub to no avail. Damn those rounded edges! On the floor they go, then, fire hazards be damned. Each one is lit before he realizes it’d make more sense to draw the bath first so they don’t all burn out. Dammit! 

Soon the bathroom smells of wax. These were supposed to smell like vanilla and cinnamon! They smelled like vanilla and cinnamon in the store... Now comes more sweat. Is that a heat rash? Truly, he doesn’t know how you manage moving about in dark spaces. Verdant eyes strain in the limited light, trying to readjust the candles even though he just finished adjusting them before turning the lights out. Many a time he’s caught you reading by candle light and he’s honestly surprised that you haven't completely _destroyed_ your vision. 

Then again, you _are_ susceptible to migraines so maybe your carelessness is catching up to you after all. Just one more reason for him to fuss over you. 

A hushed cascade of water pattering against porcelain reaches your ears. It becomes more and more muted as the tub is filled. Then comes a squeak of metal, the sound of something being poured, and a gentle sloshing of water. You can smell it before you see it as soon as Ignis opens the door. Lavender bubbles, all foamy and in great abundance. Candles have been lit to fill the bathroom with soft, warm light. The thoughtfulness of this gesture makes your cheeks heat up more than the steaminess of the bathroom. 

“This is...” Slowly, you crawl off of the bed and enter the bathroom, moving beyond where Ignis waits by the door. That blush of yours begins to give you a heat rash with the combined temperature of the room. Thank goodness it’s so dimly lit in here. 

Ignis’ cheeks flush at the way you trail off and leave him hanging. The emotion in your voice is difficult to place. There’s embarrassment but also a hint of... irritation? Oh, no. Did he mess up? Throat is cleared with an abrupt cough, the tactician pushing his glasses up the slope of his nose though they haven’t budged. “I apologize. Is this too much?” 

“It’s not fair, is what it is.” That grumbled response has Iggy stepping out in front of you so he can see your face properly. 

You’re pouting. Again: _Oh, no_. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, (y/n). What’s unfair about a bath?” 

Those sweater-clad arms cross over your chest. Triple oh, no. Your brow furrows. Quadruple. Ignis Scientia has never regretted the act of drawing a bath quite so much in his entire life. “Let’s see, if you want to break things down from a labor perspective, we _might_ be evenly matched if you’re having a particularly bad day and Noct gave me a coffee-and-energy-drink cocktail. Otherwise, for the man who feeds everyone to then draw a lavish bath for someone other than himself feels unfair.” 

How easily anxiety gives way to a flattered blush and a soft smile. You’re begging for a pinched cheek. “Honestly, I know I should have expected nothing less than a dissertation from you, dear. If I can be frank, this day is about to become even more unfair in your eyes.” 

“Oh, gods. What are you gonna do?” 

“All in due time,” Iggy hums, heading for the door. Once he’s in the doorway, he looks at you over his shoulder, green eyes flashing, and drawls, “For now, enjoy your bath.” 

The door is shut, leaving you to get your bearings now that the natural light from the room is gone. Not one to squander a gift, you disrobe and get in the bath, only slipping once. You wish you could say that you can’t enjoy the bath knowing that Iggy is working on his break day, but dammit if this isn’t comfortable. The heat from the water and the soothing aroma of lavender bubbles has you slowly nodding off. Candlelight flickers, causing your eyelids to flicker in turn. Soon, you’re sound asleep. 

Beyond the door, Ignis sets about bustling around the room, picking up refuse before getting started on a light meal. More than a few things in your room give him a start. There’s a jar that looks empty but rattles as if there’s something in it and there’s a seemingly unused tissue that skitters away from him each time he tries to grab it. Such are the things he’s going to have to get used to when having a lover with a propensity for enchanting every damn thing they can get their magical hands on. 

It takes him less than half an hour to tidy up and prepare lunch: Pasta in cream sauce with crushed peas; a recipe he’d been dying to make but couldn’t get away with at camp without Noctis pouting at him. The coffee table is set with a cream table cloth that’s bigger than Ignis would’ve liked and the plates are set neatly and garnished with parsley. There’s a nice Pinot Grigio in your kitchenette’s freezer which Ignis is afraid he’s going to have to ask you to chill. Before you know it, you’re violently splashing in the tub when Ignis knocks on the door. 

The sound of panicked flailing has the bespectacled brunet throwing the door open to be sure you haven’t drowned in less than two feet of water. At the sight of you gripping the sides of the tub like a cat refusing to bathe, Ignis laughs. Feel that? That’s an atomic blush. People usually don’t survive those and you sorta wish you hadn’t. Still laughing at your expense, all pained snorts and chuckles, Iggy approaches your pitiful self with a plush bathrobe. Sliding down further into the bath, you titter, “Oh, _good_. You’ve come to strangle me. _Finally_.” 

“Now, now. We all have our embarrassing moments, (y/n).” 

“Some more than others.” 

Ignis smirks and extends the ivory robe to you. “Would you care for a helping hand? We wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” 

Under normal circumstances, you might find the idea of being naked with Ignis thrilling. However, given the state of your ego and Iggy’s fondness of picking at it when it’s still smarting, you aren’t feeling particularly aroused. Nearly drowning in a therapeutic bath tends to do that. “No thanks,” you snarl, standing without further ado and snatching the robe from him. But do you savor the way his breath catches and his chest stills at the sight of you? Yes, yes you do. And you especially savor the way his brow puckers a bit when you cover up. 

“Suit yourself,” replies Ignis after swallowing down a lump in his throat. Six, it’s been a long time since you two have been alone. Such is the nature of group travel and sharing quarters. There are eyes and ears everywhere, and for a clandestine relationship _that_ spells trouble. Not to say Ignis Scientia has a hard time keeping his hands to himself, but sometimes it’s like you purposefully try to make it more difficult than need be. Little does he know he’s already been found out by Noctis... Well, technically Gladio, too. Though he’s unaware that the relationship has already been established. 

All haughty, you tie the robe and waltz out into your room. Well, you think you did. Are you somewhere else? Is this still your room? Stock-still, you hug the robe closer to your body and carefully survey the tidy room. The floor is spotless, every surface has been cleaned off, and all of your specimens are missing. “You cleaned my room?” It’s said like a statement but it’s supposed to be a very confused question. ‘Cause how the heck did Ignis clean up so quickly when it took you about three days to make the mess? 

“Honestly, I did you a favor,” Ignis sniffs from behind your back, sounding as pompous as ever. Suppose you should’ve seen the inevitable judgment coming from a mile off. His lack of sass was too good to be true. “I’m certain I tidied up many a biohazard.” 

Such a catty comment has you practically snapping your own neck to look at him over your shoulder. White fluff from the robe obscures your vision some but your glare is still piercing. “Gosh, it wasn’t _that_ bad! Don’t be so dramatic.” 

“A tissue attempted to crawl away from me.”

“Oh, that was-” At his judgmental gaze, you cough into the crook of your elbow and murmur, “Never mind. But it was _supposed_ to do that.”

“Mmhm. Come along.” 

You find yourself being guided to the couch, Ignis’ hand on the small of your back. Behind you, Iggy smiles. Though you sometimes stress him the hell out he’s happy to be doing this for you. The conversation you two had your first night here in Altissia? It’s left him restless at night. That sober way with which you composed yourself was eerie and unsettling. Many times, he’ll ask himself a question that he fears ever asking you outright: What does he have to do to make (y/n) Iovita happy? He’ll spend many a sleepless night agonizing over it. 

Because sometimes he thinks he doesn’t have what it takes to make the cut. There’s a lot that you do that nobody else could ever even attempt to do for Noctis. You work behind the scenes yet Ignis is aware that you’re there even if he doesn’t know what you’re plotting. There’s this great chasm between you and the rest of the world; a chasm Ignis Scientia doesn’t believe can ever be crossed. It makes him feel apart from you and sometimes, just _sometimes_ , he thinks you stay on the opposite end of it on purpose. 

Unaware of your lover’s turmoil, your nose picks up the aroma of food almost instantaneously and you’re sad to say it undercuts your righteous indignation. It’s picturesque. Everything is. From the soothing candle-lit bath to the perfectly set coffee table that looks as though someone carried it right out of a five-star restaurant and into your hotel room. An ache settles in your chest, twisting your heart until a lump forms in your throat. You hadn’t realized that your anxiety was so obvious to Ignis. You hadn’t realized just how amazing he is. 

He surprises you more and more as time goes on. 

(y/n) Iovita is Ignis Scientia’s favorite foodie. Why? Because you’re incredibly vocal with your praise. But honestly the guy could hand you a damn raisin and you’d throw him a freakin’ parade. It’s just your dynamic and it’s a wonder Prompto and Gladiolus haven’t caught on to the true nature of your relationship with how you drown the home chef with compliments. I mean, damn, you eulogize the guy at every meal. And Iggy can’t say he doesn’t appreciate the artful and brazen stroking of his ego. 

Like now. It’s peas, pasta, and cream sauce. It’s not a five-star meal, so thinks Ignis. It’s also just grocery store Pinot Grigio- not even a good brand. Yet there you go ooh-ing and ahh-ing and doing that _damn moan_ that you do at camp when you eat. The one where you kinda wiggle in your seat as you do it. The one that unfortunately goes right to Ignis’ dick every single time, without fail. The first time you ever did it, he almost met his maker because he choked on _pudding_ , of all things. Oh, the _look_ on Noct’s face... 

Green eyes watch you unblinkingly, unamused. Ignis begs himself not to blush. His upper lip twitches when your tongue drags along the tines of your fork. The tactician dabs at his lips with his napkin, finished with his meal, and snarks, “Are you attempting to _eat_ the fork, love?” 

“What?” You stop mid-lick. In your defense, you aren’t being a provocative troll right now. That sauce is to die for and the wine is top-notch. Then again, you also drank box wine at the Spire and cheap spirits if you couldn’t get your little gremlin hands on anything aged or fancy. You aren’t exactly a sommelier or anything. “Excuse _me_ for enjoying this meal. I didn’t know I was going to be judged cruelly for savoring my food.” 

That expert ego stroking evokes the faintest smile from the brunet. “Did you really enjoy your meal, (y/n)?” 

“Why, _of course_ , Scientia!” The black leather couch is firm against your back as you recline, crossing your legs so that the front of your robe opens to reveal your thighs. Wine glass is cradled in your palm, the citrine colored wine swirling. And the award for “Greatest Display of Restraint” goes to Ignis Scientia who doesn’t so much as _glance_ down. When he doesn’t fall for your games, you never fail to huff. Funnily enough, it’s your huffs and pouts that get under his skin the most. He’ll never let you find that out, though. He’ll be doomed if you ever do. 

Wine is sipped and savored. Iggy always allows the flavor to really mull around in his mouth before swallowing. It’s why he never gets wine-drunk. “Would you like to carry on with my plans for today?” Asks Ignis. That’s when you notice the lone paper bag that still rests on the kitchen counter. It’s nondescript, looks innocent enough. But it’s in the way Ignis says “ _plans_ ” that has you straightening your spine and squaring your shoulders. It’s in the way those green eyes gleam that has warmth pooling in your gut. 

“More plans, you say?” You drawl, sipping your wine as well. Though you’re making yourself look as alluring as possible, you’re desperately trying to use this damn wine as mouthwash. Why the heck did Ignis make pasta with peas, pepper, and a hint of friggin’ _garlic_ if he wanted to get frisky? That Pinot Grigio mouthwash technique of yours unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed. Ignis snorts his wine, his napkin instantly being brought up to his nose for some damage control. 

“I’ll leave you to freshen up,” he coughs, rising from the couch and hastily making his way over to the kitchen. Now that you’ve both been shamed, you have no qualms about going to the bathroom and flicking your wrist to snuff out all of the candles you careless nerds forgot about. Teeth are brushed thoroughly and hastily and you probably go a little nuts with the mouthwash ‘cause now your cheeks feel a bit on the raw side. Ignis has his own toothbrush that he bought at the store and he preps at the sink. Always prepared. 

When you step back into the room, Ignis is already sitting on the edge of the bed with his shirt mostly unbuttoned. He glances at you, hands momentarily freezing before continuing to disrobe. Ignis always has some anxiety about being nude. You’ve noticed that he’s quick to get under the covers when he isn’t playing up being bold. It’s a mindfulness of his stress that has you dropping your robe as you stand before him. Again, he freezes, but this time it isn’t momentary. You take advantage of his frozen state to work on those buttons for him. 

To further relax your lover, you smile and say, “You know, I always enjoy my time with you, Scientia.” Hands pull the shirt off of his shoulders and you allow him to take it off the rest of the way when he can pry his eyes off of you long enough. Now you unclasp his belt buckle and unbutton his pants, crouching between his knees to do so. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be right now,” you drawl, brushing your knuckles firmly against his erection as you drag his zipper down, eyes upturned to stare boldly at him. 

That’s an unnatural but highly flattering red on his cheeks. Ignis lifts his hips for you to pull his pants and underwear down but before you can wrap your lips around him he’s leaning over to the side and grabbing something out of the paper bag you hadn’t realized he had sitting on the floor by the bed. At the sight of your pout, Iggy chuckles and instructs you to get on the bed. You do so grudgingly, if only to allow Ignis to fully enact whatever plan he has. Well, that plan involves a condom and lube. 

The carmine duvet is as smooth as silk. It feels odd against your bare skin, somehow making you feel more exposed, somehow making your skin feel hypersensitive. Maybe it’s just the fact that you’re totally naked on top of a bed? Maybe it’s just the fact that Ignis is lubing himself up in plain view? You don’t even realize that you’re holding your breath while watching him until you start to feel dizzy. He’s putting on a show; stroking his cock, running his index finger over the tip in tight circles. 

“Oh, come _on_ ,” you whine. Your impatience is met with laughter, Iggy having mercy on your pitiful soul and crawling on top of you. But not once does the teasing stop. Because he takes it _painfully_ slow, dipping his head down to kiss up the length of your body as he moves, the kisses he places on the inside of your thighs infuriatingly light but plentiful. It’s murder, it’s _torture_ to have his head there between your legs with him doing nothing put peppering kisses everywhere but where you need his mouth. 

“You’re so wonderful, (y/n). Do you know that?” Iggy questions softly, brushing his knuckles along your cheek, gazing down fondly at you. He’s amused by the pissed-off scowl you’re giving him. It’s an effort not to laugh in your face. “Truly, you’re one of the most amazing people I’ve ever met.” 

“I- Thank you...” At this point, your cheeks feel impossibly hot. Everything feels hot. 

A throaty chuckle is stifled, lips pressed against your neck. He’s distracting you now, positioning himself as he speaks. “Oh, you’re so very welcome. Have you enjoyed today thus far? I hope it has been _relaxing_.” His voice goes a bit deeper there at the end. Damn him. 

“I have. Y-You really didn’t have to do all of this and I want you to know that I appreciate it.” Your hand cups his cheek, thumb ghosting over his cheekbone. You can barely hear yourself speak, your heart is beating so loudly. But your response, no matter how softly spoken, is rewarded with a flattered smile from the brunet. He can feel your heart beating into his own chest. He gets ready but you aren’t done talking and you’re trying to get cheeky. “To be fair, I definitely owe y- _Oh_!” 

Never before has Ignis loved wiping that smug look off of your face quite this much. To see your expression twist from something so superior into something so shamelessly lustful makes him tingle. There’s pleasure and maybe the slightest hint of pain in your expression at having him stretch and fill you, but any misgivings he might have are pushed aside when you eagerly spread your legs wider and grab his ass to push him in deeper. Already, Ignis is getting drunk off of how you earnestly feed his hunger for expressions of your pleasure. 

Ignis Scientia lives for your sighs, your moans, your groans, your whimpers. He’s an ardent lover, watching your face fixedly, occasionally looking down to see you take him. Warm hands firmly hold your hips in place when you unthinkingly move around and throw off his rhythm. Though he may act demure outside of the bedroom, though he may claim to put on an act for your benefit when you two are having sex, you wonder just how much a supposedly mild man can be “acting” if he always, without fail, makes it his goal to make you scream. 

And, yes. You do scream. 

The pace Ignis sets is slow and steady; thrusts are deep and he holds himself in you before almost pulling all the way out. Even when heat coils in his gut, even when his spine tingles, he keeps this pace. Emerald eyes watch your head roll back, drink in the sight of your silent screams and your arching back. Fingers run down your chest and his tongue follows, swirling along your skin. Each thrust moves you bodily, a slow slap of skin on skin that reverberates through your entire being until you can’t take much more. 

With every thrust, you see stars. Each time he almost pulls out, you’re given a chance to catch your breath and your heart seems to restart. Then he’s driving himself back in and you’re squeezing your eyes shut without meaning to, locking your legs behind his back without thinking, pulling him so close that everything aches and you feel him throbbing inside of you as you finish cumming. Ignis will blush later when you tell him that he’s a master of “knockout orgasms.” He’ll blush even harder when you explain to him exactly what that means. 

“I... _definitely_ owe you...” You finally manage to finish that thought from earlier; breathless, voice a little worse for wear, and the ceiling seeming to spin up above you. Beside you, Ignis lazily turns his head to watch you fondly. Green eyes dance along your profile, enjoying the sight of that healthy glow to your skin. At last, you look rested. A contented smile crawls across Ignis’ face as he reaches over to turn your face toward his and presses a gentle kiss to your lips. 

And then you two realize that the balcony doors were left open.

* * *

**Gladiolus**

Tomorrow is Leviathan’s trial. It has loomed on the horizon for days now as you’ve all hunted daemons and performed menial tasks for the benefit of the people of Altissia. Being everyone’s gofer seems to be the group’s lot in life. Not like _Noctis_ helps things. It’s like the prince lives to gather up as many quests as possible and (back when you were all in mainland Lucis) it was as if he had super-hearing and could hear cries for help even when the Regalia was going 60 mph with the windows up. 

It’s honestly no wonder he sleeps like a damn log. 

But it’s a bit much, really. Even after traveling with these guys for so long, it’s like you can’t quite acclimate to a life on the go. Sure, you were a busy little bee in the Spire, but that was _the Spire_. There’s a huge difference between running errands and having a packed schedule in the confines of an old college versus jetting around an entire kingdom. There’s a huge difference between snarking at magisters and having them snark back at you over research papers versus fighting daemons and animals for your life. 

It’s a miracle you haven’t dropped dead from exhaustion. As uncomplaining and stoic as you are, your fatigue almost goes unnoticed. _Almost_. The Captain of the Mage Protection Squad has a sense for these things, though. Especially when you're a zombie at breakfast. 

The hotel room is spacious but quaint. Two beds occupy the room along with a kitchenette that Iggy utilizes to cook breakfast, and there’s a sitting area with a television. It’s a nice room for five people to share. Except only _four_ share it these days and that’s a fact that has bugged Gladiolus ever since you moved rooms. Sure, even though you two are dating it doesn’t mean you share a bed with him, but the Shield likes to be able to keep an eye on _everyone_ \- you included. And you’re proving his protectiveness right with those tired eyes. 

Not to say Gladiolus doesn’t trust you to take care of yourself, but he knows that you tend to neglect a very vital thing: Mental and emotional health. Being so severe, people typically don’t think the Shield gives such things a second thought. Having had a younger sibling, though, Gladiolus is no stranger to the importance of nourishing one’s body, mind, and spirit. You call him a damn hippy when he says as much to you, earning yourself a glaring of those amber eyes and an indignant blush. 

That alone revealed to the older Amicitia your stance on such things. And he can’t say it surprised him. Mages, specifically Spire-trained ones, _do_ tend to neglect certain aspects of their health in the pursuit of more scholarly interests. He’s usually heard the excuse that magic is “hard” or that there simply aren’t enough hours in the day to work, study, eat, _and_ make sure one’s mental state is healthy. Gladio has often heard you refer to breaks, naps, and things of that sort as “luxuries.” 

It’s troubling, to say the least. He’s seen first-hand how tightly you bottle up all of your worries because you’re of the mindset that negative emotions are an inconvenience that need to be ignored rather than properly addressed. Although he’s far from being the group’s counselor, Gladiolus goes to great lengths to be something of the sort for _you_. You’d confided in him once and he wishes you’d do it again. It’s that damn pride, though, that gets in the way. It’s that damn pride that has you missing your mouth and splashing yourself with coffee. 

“Hey, (y/n), your mouth is a little more to the left,” Prompto teases, handing you a napkin. The goodnatured smile on the blond’s face shrivels up and falls off the second he sees the ugly glare Gladiolus is shooting him. Yikes. 

While you’re busy wiping off your shirt, Gladio turns his hellfire gaze off of Prompto and onto Noctis. Dark eyebrows are already raised at him expectantly, wondering what the Shield wants. “We should probably dedicate today to regrouping. We’ve been doin’ a helluva lot of hunts and tomorrow’s a big day.” 

Noct seems to consider it, mulling over the suggestion with a mouthful of waffle and egg. “Yeah,” Noct finally consents, “that sounds good. What do you guys think?” 

Iggy is watching you clean yourself off, which you’re taking a little too long to do, when he replies, “That sounds like a grand idea, Gladio.” 

“Yeah. Been runnin’ us a little ragged these past few days, Noct,” Prom fake-scolds his agreement. 

Then everyone turns their attention to you, waiting on your input. That napkin makes its fifteenth pass over the same spot before Gladdy bumps your foot from under the table. The napkin stops and you look up at everyone. Such intense stares with varying degrees of severity makes you clench the napkin in your fist. Beside you, Gladiolus is steaming and you blatantly ignore him. Noctis is offered a dazzling smile and you apologize, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” 

Noct frowns and informs you, blue eyes raking over your face to take in the extent of your exhaustion, “We’re takin’ the day off.” 

“Oh? Are you going to spend your day playing games?” You joke, attempting to drink your coffee once more, shooting Noct another affable smile from across the table. When the raven- haired royal admits that that’s actually a pretty good idea, Prom chiming in his agreement, you chuckle and tidy away your mostly untouched plate. “Well, then. If we’re all allowed to spend our free day how we see fit, I’ll be going back to my room. You all know where I am if you need me.” 

Not a glance is spared for Gladiolus. Your tall, brunet boyfriend knows what _that_ behavior means: You know he’s upset with you. If you had a tail, it’d be between your legs as you exit the room. Before the door has even fully shut, Gladiolus is standing and attempting to follow you. A hand on his elbow, however, stops him. Ignis removes his hand once he has Gladio’s attention. “Perhaps it would be wise for you to give yourself a moment to compose yourself before you seek out (y/n)?” 

That wise old friend has it right. Nothing good ever really happens when Gladio comes at you all riled up. When the two of you argue (and genuine arguments are few and far between), he’s all fire and passion but you turn to ice. In those interactions, Gladiolus always comes out feeling like a fool in the face of your stoicism. And that definitely isn’t what he wants to happen today. So he gives it a moment. Sits and watches Noct and Prompto play games and kick at each other’s feet with a smile on his face. 

Gladio has a cup of tea with Iggy and reads the news, browsing through the headlines for anything of import. Then he gets up and realizes it’s been _ten minutes_ rather than a couple of hours. Behind him, Ignis smiles into his cup of tea when he spots how the Shield freezes up the second he glances at his phone on the way out. Gladiolus has an internal debate about whether or not he should go after you _now_ or wait a bit longer. _But_ he _is_ already here at the door and you’re _just_ one floor down... 

“Thank you for your purchase!” 

“Uh-huh. Have a good one.” 

Yeah, “just one floor down,” he told himself. Yet Gladio finds himself biding his time by purchasing junk food from a convenience store- which was a difficult place to find in this tourist trap since everything here in Altissia is either an expensive restaurant or a bougie café. Who knew cup noodles and shrimp chips would take nearly half an hour to find? And as Gladiolus Amicitia has this little adventure in the streets of Altissia, you’re holed up in your hotel room, trying to weaponize a canary feather. 

“How useful is this enchantment, I wonder?” The daemon sighs, a tad irritated at having to take the form of a small bird only to have you proceed to pluck a feather off of it. The lengths it’ll go to in order to entertain you... Six, when you were a child it would hide your toys all around the Spire and watch you try to find them. Its heart would swell when you’d triumphantly lift one up out from under a magister’s desk after you broke into the office. The creature will never cease to indulge you, wicked as it may be. 

That soft yellow feather is zapped with one well-placed bolt of electricity right from your fingertip. Tired eyes examine it closely before closing to allow you to feel the energy radiating from the feather. It’s a little too strong, you note. The air around it prickles with dangerous electricity. “This isn’t useful now but it _might_ be useful in the future,” you admit, cracking your eyes open and tossing the feather down onto the coffee table. “If one of the guys is disarmed, I’d like to equip them with something enemies might not expect to be a weapon.” 

“Ah,” the canary hums from its place perched atop your head. Beady little eyes stare down at that lethal feather. How the daemon so admires the punch your enchantments pack, no matter how odd they may be. “I see. The element of surprise is a favorite of yours, I take it?” 

“It’s better to be the one getting the jump on someone than to be the one getting jumped,” you muse and then inhale sharply, a sudden pain lancing through your forehead. “Shit! This migraine isn’t going away.” 

That small yellow bird flutters down onto the coffee table to stand before you. It cocks its head and pins you with one small eye. “You need rest, (y/n). How long do you think you can get away with playing fast and loose with your own health? Tomorrow is the Hydraean’s trial. She’s temperamental at best and you’ll need to be in top form even if you won’t be the one to greet her.” At your irritated expression, the daemon sighs, “Take a shower and then do your body a favor and get some rest. Enchantments can wait.” 

The daemon is right. You _know_ that. You’re so full of aches and pains that you wouldn’t be surprised if you went to a doctor only for them to tell you that you’ve turned into one giant stress- knot and you should consider donating your body to science. Gosh, it’s so hard to shut up, though. You’re actually grimacing in an attempt to not snark at the daemon and you can practically see that self-satisfied smile on the daemon’s face despite it having a beak. Clothes are gathered under a beady gaze and then you’re brewing a pot of coffee. 

“Shower, (y/n).” 

“I know!” You pout, groggily pouring yourself a cup of coffee before heading toward the bathroom. It’s difficult to manage, given the dim lighting in here to accommodate the daemon. Gosh, fatigue is coming at you hard and fast. Right now, you’re scrambling for something to keep you from dropping like a fly. 

Disgusted, the daemon balks, “You’re bringing a beverage into the _bathroom_? Honestly?” 

“Multi-tasking,” is your only response and it’s barely even a grumble. The daemon is only slightly curious when it doesn’t immediately hear the sounds of the shower being turned on. It erroneously assumes you’re on your phone or drinking that damn coffee or something. ‘Cause why would it guess that you’re standing in the shower without the water running? Who would actually think that that would be a thing that you would do? 

Gladiolus is a man on a mission. He has a stern lecture on his tongue and horrible food in a plastic bag to take the edge off. Because the words he wants to say to you? Even played over and over in his head, they’re a little too sharp. But no amount of revisions can soften them ‘cause Gladiolus Amicitia _needs_ to get it through to you that he cares about you and that obviously that means he’s ready and willing for you to confide in him. He’s a judgment-free zone for you. He needs you to understand that before you break. 

He’s going to bat for you. Sometimes he feels like that might annoy you: Him being so defensive at times that it almost feels patronizing. He’s just protective, that’s all. An ardent defender of the mage. Funny, because most days you two strong personalities are butting heads. Dating hasn’t put an end to _that_. But back to Gladio’s defensiveness. Having had a tête-à-tête with you before about your feelings of inadequacy with regard to your position as arcane advisor to the future king, he’s been soft on you. 

It’s odd. Because in response to doubt, Gladiolus usually blusters and dishes out tough-love. He’s often judged Ignis for coddling Noct and yet _what’s he doing with you_? Gladiolus Amicitia will admit, stiff-lipped and red-cheeked, that he’s a hypocrite. He’s highly conscientious of dishing out love that’s _too_ tough on you, mostly because he feels you’re hard enough on yourself as it is that him adding to that would be counterproductive. He’s highly aware of the fact that you push yourself to your breaking point and _beyond_. 

Now, the Shield knows all about testing one’s own limits and growing stronger from that, so he doesn’t fault you for doing so. What he _does_ fault you for and what _does_ aggravate him is that you don’t seem to have a healthy appreciation for _rest_. In fact, you seem highly contemptuous of it. You’ll burn fast and bright and then your flame will go out in a blink. It’s a pattern of behavior. And right now, you’re burning far too bright and Gladiolus can’t say for certain why that is. Because _you won’t tell him_! 

Nostrils flare at that thought, the Shield standing before your door. Oh, how it gets under his skin that you’re backsliding after he thought the two of you made progress on this front. One hand raises and knocks with more force than necessary. On the other side of the door, the daemon starts and looks over, head tilting back, sniffing. You’ve drawn the curtains tight to allow it to roam freely in the darkness, and at the familiar scent of the fiery Shield, the daemon slinks over to the door and opens it before returning to avian form. 

“Hey, (y/n), you gotta sec-” The Shield pauses in the doorway, confronted with the inky darkness of your room. There’s a light on in the kitchen but it’s insufficient and only creates a small orange halo that barely extends to the balcony doors. Light from the hallway spills into the space, illuminating the couch and coffee table, upon which is perched a small yellow bird. It looks positively chuffed to see him. Or as chuffed as a canary can look. Gladiolus frowns and sighs, “Oh, hey. Is your summoner around?” 

Little excited chirps are his answer and the Shield rolls his eyes at himself. What else did he expect? You’re the only one who can understand this damn thing. The light is flipped on and the Shield enters the room, closing the door behind him. It’s quiet in here and it... really smells. Holy crap. What’s that _smell_? Camphor? Gladiolus glowers around the haphazard room. An alchemy table has been manufactured out of the coffee table- littered with glass vials and all sorts of pungent plants: The source of the odor. 

Books are sat in neat piles around said table along with scrolls and pens. Despite the sheer volume of scholarly and magical items strewn about, Gladiolus has to grudgingly admit that it’s a _tidy_ mess- just like you. It’s still nowhere near the mess His Highness would make of his apartment but it’s rather uncharacteristic of you. Typically you’re almost obscenely tidy but this room screams of a slowly unravelling mage. It makes the bag of junk food all the more necessary. 

“(y/n)?” Gladio calls, stepping over a pile of scrolls to go and put the plastic bag on the kitchenette’s counter- the only clean space in the room aside from the bed that looks untouched. There’s no answer. Amber eyes alight on the bathroom door where light peeks through the bottom. A bit perturbed, Gladio hastens to enter the small bathroom. The door is unlocked but no one is in there. There are clothes on the floor, though. Weird. Just as he’s about to whip out his phone and call you, he gets a bizarre sense that he’s not alone in here. 

Eyes slide to the side, landing on the dark shower curtain with its rather unnecessary golden embellishments. Like he’s in a horror movie, Gladio reaches out slowly, tentatively, and then he takes a breath and rips the curtain to the side to reveal... Okay, it’s intervention time. You’re half- asleep with a cup of hot coffee in your hand, hunched over and standing under the shower head with _no water running_. In your defense, you _think_ the shower is actually running. You’re _that_ tired. 

At the sound of little metal shower rings sliding quite violently along the shower rod, you’re tugged lazily from your daze. You blink slowly at the Shield who stares at you with wide eyes. Well, sometimes life comes at you fast. 

"What the-?!" You both shout in unison, Gladio releasing the shower curtain like it just turned into a venomous snake and you... shielding the dignity of your coffee cup? 

You can hear the daemon laughing evilly as the Shield hurries out of the bathroom with apologies pouring from his mouth. He’s too confused by what he just saw to stop and give you a proper tongue-lashing despite that being his primary goal. Out in your room, Gladiolus brings his hand to his forehead and sighs. It’s worse than he thought. He’s torn between going back into that bathroom and just holding you or storming back in there and demanding you take a long, hard look at what you’re doing to yourself. 

Coffee in the shower?! Well, at least you didn’t have the shower running, right? Actually, it’s way weirder that you didn’t... 

After taking the fastest shower of your life (and chugging your coffee ‘cause you’re not gonna waste that) you wipe that incident out of your memory and waltz into the room like nothing even happened. Gladio is sitting on your bed since it’s the only place that isn’t covered in magical artifacts and he isn’t daft enough to touch any of your stuff since one never knows what’s harmless or dangerous. “Gladiolus. What are you doing here and how’d you get-?” Your gaze lands on that canary on the coffee table. Lips purse. “Oh. Never mind.” 

That head of dark hair turns so the Shield can properly fix you with a stern, disappointed look. His expression is sober and the daemon can easily read the tension in the room (secretly, it’s pleased that the Shield is going to lecture you since you _never_ listen to it with regard to its concerns about your health). It suggests that you let it out and you go to the double-doors that lead out onto the balcony and let the canary go free. The curtains remain open but you close the doors so you can still appreciate the sunshine. 

Too bad a storm is brewing at your back despite the clear skies before you. 

Confrontation isn’t exactly your favorite thing in the world and it seems like Gladiolus lives for it. He’s never been one to stand idly by while people do or say things that he doesn’t approve of. When you first started getting to know him, that was a bit off-putting to you but it was also quite refreshing to deal with someone who was outspoken rather than passive-aggressive. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t stress you the hell out with his vocal displeasure, though. ‘Cause dammit if you hate disappointing the guy. 

“C’mon, Magey. Sit here,” says Gladio, patting the spot beside him. It’s as if he can sense your discomfort and perhaps he does. Tension is apparent in your form, shoulders squared and chin raised in that superior way that Gladdy has long since realized is a self-defense mechanism. For a moment you remain standing before the balcony doors, the sun’s rays giving you a halo-effect that Gladiolus will argue is more than fitting, smitten as he is. When you delay for too long, the bodyguard pats the spot again, more insistently, and you sigh. 

Feet drag, drawing this out for as long as you can manage. The tile floor is cold through your socks and you hug your sweater close to your body and murmur, “I really hope this isn’t a come-to-Ramuh talk. Thought I escaped those the day I left the Spire.” 

Gladdy snorts, “You’ll keep findin’ yourself on the wrong end of ‘em if you keep acting up, Magey. Doesn’t matter if I’m not a magister. I’m someone who cares and that gives me more than enough authority to lecture you when you’re pushing yourself too hard.” Seeing that you’re properly chastened, eyes downcast and lower lip pouted, the Shield sighs and grabs your hand in his. Thumb strokes the back of your hand but he isn’t done just yet. “What’ve you been up to, (y/n)?” 

“ _Oh, gods. He used my real name._ ” Sweat beads on your forehead like you’ve just entered an interrogation room and aren’t merely sitting on a plush bed with your boyfriend in an expensive hotel. 

The fact that Gladiolus used your name in that low timbre tells you that this is a serious conversation and you’d better not evade. Not unless you want to see that brow all furrowed, those arms crossed, and for the Shield to become the embodiment of frustrated disappointment. Somehow, his fully-body disappointment is more lethal than Noct’s pout and Prompto’s puppy eyes _combined_. Probably because he only deploys that weapon for important matters and not for every little thing like the others. 

With this in mind, you carefully confess, “I’ve just been prepping for the trial and beyond. Along with making potions and poisons, there are some tricky enchantments that I’ve been working on and they take a lot of time and energy.” Not a lie but not the whole truth. You’ll stick to your guns and keep the knowledge of your binding magic to yourself until the timing is right. Otherwise, you’re certain Gladio will give you hell. One hand gestures vaguely about the room. “Obviously I needed my own space for that.” 

Amber eyes dance around the room, alighting on every book and pen and balled-up piece of paper. Crossing personal and professional boundaries is strictly forbidden, or at least that was what Gladiolus was taught. But then he met his fellow royal advisor and you turned a few of his preconceived notions about the world on its head. Before he met you, he told himself he wouldn’t get into a serious relationship until he was firmly established as Noctis’ Shield and he had safely seen Noctis to the throne. 

After all, he didn’t think he’d have the time to get to know someone personally enough to enter into a romantic relationship. You just _had_ to go and sucker-punch his feelings in the head by being all haughty and awkward and endearing. Then he found himself struggling to figure out his next move. Pursue his fellow advisor or wait? And fear creeped up on him. He saw how Cindy laughed at your awful jokes. He saw the way Coctura’s eyes lit up when you’d shuffle up to the bar and compliment her cooking. And he had to lock things down. 

Well, not necessarily “lock things down” but this is as locked down as Gladiolus ever thought he’d get when the future is still so uncertain. He relishes the flustered look on your face when he calls you his lover. He savors your scoldings when he initiates PDA. And he always thought that his intimacy with you would extend beyond the sexual and into emotional. But there’s a wall. It’s always been there since before you two started dating. The only time it comes down is when you have your head together with Noctis. 

And though that shouldn’t bother Gladio, considering you’re Noct’s arcane advisor and whatever it is you’re working on would obviously be disclosed to the royal first, it _does_ get under his skin. It’s a bit more than just petty jealousy. It’s not as though Gladio thinks you confiding in Noct means you’ve a more intimate relationship with the young man. But Gladiolus is your friend _and_ your lover. He likes to think that that would mean something to you, too. 

“Is that all?” 

_Is_ that all? His hand around yours feels like you’ve stuck your hand into a furnace. That heat is amplified by your fatigued and therefore agitated state. Such agitation becomes concentrated on yourself. Because you know that you’ve been unfair. You’ve had personal talks with both Noctis and Ignis now with regard to your plans. Though you’ve only ever hinted at what you intend to do, it’s still far more than you’ve given Gladiolus. Of course the brunet would start to feel left out. Of course the brunet would begin to feel like you’ve cast him aside. 

“Truly?” You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose. Those golden eyes feel like fire on your face. “Gladiolus, we both know that I have control issues- I’ll be the first one to admit that. The most I’ll tell you is that I’m pursuing some treacherous research avenues in order to serve Noctis as completely as I can. That’s why I haven’t really told you much because nothing is _actually_ set in stone with regard to what I'm going to do and I know you’d disapprove either way.” 

Not once has Gladio’s gaze left your face. “Disapprove of what? You riskin’ your life?” When you don’t immediately correct him and reassure him that what you’re doing 100% won’t be at your own expense, Gladiolus scowls and uses his free hand to turn your face toward his. Those amber eyes are like molten gold. “I know you’re so damn hardheaded that your skull is practically made of granite, but you really shouldn’t push yourself so hard. You need to rest and you need to stop actin' like taking back the kingdom is a solo mission. Don’t do anything stupid or get yourself killed. Can you at least promise me that?” 

Your voice goes comically high, expression far too flippant, “ _Well_ -”

“(y/n),” Gladio cuts you off, not having that shit. His face is almost frozen in an eternal scowl. 

Prying your hand from his, you sigh dramatically and fall back onto the bed. The hotel room’s ceiling is almost as high as your old Spire room’s, except it isn’t all stone and is painted a soft white. Beside you, you can practically feel Gladiolus’ resigned disappointment at the fact that you won’t divulge any information to him, but you know he’s at least slightly satisfied that you confessed _something_. And he is. Gladiolus is grateful. What would please him even more is if you’d make that damn promise. 

You reach out blindly to grab the Shield’s arm and pull him down with you. He goes willingly, resting beside you, propped up on one elbow so he can stare down into your face. Lips part and you dart your eyes over to match his intense gaze, softly assuring, “I can promise you that if I do anything stupid or get myself killed, it at least won’t be on purpose. Rest assured that I don’t have a death wish, Gladiolus. I want to stay alive for as long as possible in order to serve Noctis, my kingdom, and-” That little speech gets lodged in your throat, cheeks warming up. 

“And what?” Gladio pries, tilting his head. It’s way too endearing a thing for a man his size to do, that dark hair getting in his face a bit only for you to reach out and brush it aside, tucking it behind his ear. That’s one thing you’ve always envied about him: Gladio’s hair is _impossibly_ soft. Almost like silk, really. It’s not fair. Prompto has said as much before, demanding to know what the older man does to get his hair so soft. It stands in stark contrast to that prickly facial hair he loves irritating your neck with. “Magey?” 

When you realize you’ve just been staring up at the Shield in silence, your cheeks get that much warmer. “Ah. Sorry. Um...” You can’t look at him now as you finish, “I want to stay alive for as long as possible so I- uh, so I can b-be with you. I mean, if that’s okay with you.” Head snaps back to shoot him a mortified look, “Not that I’m hinging life or death on our relationship, mind. I just-” 

“Relax. I get it, Magey,” Gladio chuckles. Wow. That awkward and very painful confession sure did nearly stop his heart and he can’t stop himself from reaching down and flicking your nose, much to your dismay. 

“Hey! The hell, Gladio?!” You whine, hands protectively covering your poor nose, body wriggling in a vain attempt to scoot away from your assailant. It’s an escape that Gladio won’t tolerate. The Shield scoops you up in his arms and rolls over onto his back so that you’re on top of him. It’s a miracle that your face hasn’t burned off with the blush that sears your cheeks right down to the bone. Heart pounds so loudly in your chest that you’d swear on your life it was replaced with a sledgehammer. “Why are you _so_ embarrassing?” 

A rumbling chuckle reverberates through your entire body. “Why’re _you_ always so easily embarrassed?” 

“Hmph.” Elbows are planted with more force than necessary onto his chest, chin propped up in your palms so you can gaze down at the brunet with pure derision. It’s always _that_ damn look of yours that gets his pants feeling too tight. “Are you really trying to get cheeky with me after that inquisition?” 

“Puh-lease. That was hardly an inquisition. I played softball with you, Magey. As usual,” Gladio sniffs, still mildly ticked off that you didn’t spill your guts but happy enough with your promise. Then those golden eyes glint deviously. “You’re lucky you’re so damn cute. Otherwise I wouldn’t let ya off easy.” 

You snort, “Oh, yeah? Are you implying that I’m coasting through life on my good looks?” When your boyfriend laughs again, you joke, “I’ll have you know I’m more than just a pretty face. The moment you stepped foot into this room you were surrounded by pure, unadulterated _genius_. My only weakness is that I require food and rest. Maybe you should walk in on me in the shower more often so I can get a second-wind for research?” You’re being cheeky. Gladiolus Amicitia can never allow (y/n) Iovita to get away with being cheeky. 

Gladio stops laughing to look at you seriously, amber eyes simmering. “That an invitation, Magey?” 

“No!” You scoff, so indignant. Too bad righteous indignation isn’t a cure for embarrassment. When you try to get off of the Shield to distance yourself from the source of your shame, strong arms wrap around your waist to keep you in place. “Why would it be? W-We’ve already-” 

“Yeah, we’ve already done that before.” At this point, he can feel your heart pounding. It makes him begin toying with the back of your shirt. Gladio drawls, “So why’re you acting all shy, Bashful Mage?” 

It’s not as though you actually find Gladiolus intimidating or anything. I mean, the guy does squats while he eats dinner and asks you or one of the guys to sit on his back while he does push-ups (regular _and_ one-armed). He also flips out when there’s a new flavor of cup noodles. He’s a _massive_ dork. Yet in the romance department you get flustered in his presence all the same. You’ve got it so bad for him that you’re at the point where even his awful, _horrible_ nicknames send a bolt of electricity down your spine. 

But you know how to get under his skin. 

“Because I’m _so_ in love with you,” you simper and immediately take advantage of his shock to get out of his grasp and off of the bed. Clothes are smoothed out with grand, theatrical gestures to convey your annoyance with Gladiolus’ tomfoolery. The Shield sits up to watch you go through the motions before those perceptive eyes spot the way you hold yourself. (y/n) Iovita has never been a sloucher. Not in all the time he’s known you, anyway. But minimal rest and a ton of stress takes a toll on your posture. 

That usually ramrod straight back is stooped, making you look rundown and exhausted. Those rumpled clothes of yours make you look even worse, to be honest. Amber eyes are hooded and the Shield finds himself asking before he can fully think about the question, “You have any body oil?” 

Your head swivels in his direction like a startled owl. “What? Why the heck would I have something like _that_?” 

“Look, don’t go getting all self-righteous with me. I just asked a question.” Gladiolus huffs, planting his elbows on his knees and hunching over, still sitting on the foot of the bed. 

“Well _so-rry_.” Fidgeting, you hesitantly confess once you really consider his question, “Actually, now that I think about it- Shut up!” Gladiolus is giving you the biggest shit-eating grin you’ve ever seen. “Excuse me! Did you not just get after _me_ for being judgmental?” 

“I didn’t say anything.” 

“Yeah? Well that expression?” You point in a highly dramatic and accusatory way at his face. “It needs to shut up!” 

Those butterscotch eyes roll so damn hard. “All right, all right. What were you sayin’?” 

“Hmph. Before I was so rudely interrupted-”

“Interrupted by yourself.” 

You raise your voice. “I remembered that the last time I bought _things_ from the convenience store, I purchased this two-in-one, uh, lubricant.” At Gladio’s raised eyebrow, you huff, “It was the only thing they had, okay? It’s not like a place that sells re-reheated hot dogs has as much variety as a sex shop.” 

“Okay. I take it you still have it?”

“Why would I bring it up otherwise?”

“All right, smart-ass. Bring it out.”

“Tell me what you want to use it for, first.”

“I literally just asked for body oil. Take a wild guess, Magey.”

Index finger comes up to rest on your chin, tapping occasionally as you pretend to deeply contemplate this mystery for the ages. When you come up with an answer, you snap your fingers and exclaim, “You’re going to oil up your muscles and ask me to take glamor shots?” 

Gladiolus stares at you. Long and hard. That face is stony and expressionless. It starts to get uncomfortable. “You joke now but we can do that if ya want. But no. I’m gonna give you a massage. At this point I’m surprised you haven’t turned into a giant stress-knot.” 

“Who knows? Maybe the transformation already took place.” You’re only half joking. 

“Just get the lube,” Gladio sighs, already done with his mage’s incessant teasing.

“Oh, _fine_.” 

Banter usually loosens you up, _usually_ , and you’ve the sneaking suspicion that this isn’t just going to be a massage. That’s an exciting thought. The thing that has you nervous, however, is the massage in itself. You’ve never had one. It’s not like the Spire hired a masseuse. Sure, you had an opportunity to get a massage over in Galdin but you were turned off of the experience when Noct freaked out like a second into his massage. Apparently the royal has a ticklish neck and you didn’t want to find out if you had one, too, at the hands of a total stranger. 

The lube is found in no time, still nestled deep in your bag along with the unopened box of way-too-small condoms. Being a tightwad, you briefly wonder if you can return them. By the time you turn back around, Gladio has already pulled the fancy duvet off of the bed and put a towel down. Damn, he moves fast. Or you were just too slow. Either way, you make your way over and toss the bottle to him. The Shield catches it just as you joke, “See? I spared no expense for my favorite nerd.” 

“The only nerd in here is you,” quips Gladio. “Now take off your clothes.” 

That never fails to make your blood buzz. Still, you play the part of the indifferent yet brazen mage. “Wow. At least buy me dinner first.” 

Gladio informs you as he picks off the protective seal from the bottle, “There’s a bag full of junk food on the counter,” when he glances up and sees your excited expression, the Shield emphasizes, “ _but_ , you gotta wait. Don’t want you getting sick when I’m giving you a massage.”

“That all depends. Is that your ki-” 

“Don’t finish that sentence. If you do, I’m taking you outside and throwin' you into the damn water,” the Shield warns. 

“ _Fine_.” Occupied with anxious thoughts of if you might react badly (like, as bad as _Noct_ ) to a massage or if you’ll make a fool of yourself some other way in front of Gladiolus, you take your time disrobing and keep your gaze on the floor. “Can I keep my underwear on?” 

As you’ve been getting undressed, Gladiolus has been watching. Your unease is apparent in the meek way that you’ve gone about taking your clothes off; fingers slipping on buttons, zipper hastily pulled down like you’re ripping off a bandage. So, the brunet doesn’t _immediately_ jump at the opportunity to tease you. However, he _does_ want your underwear off. He just knows he needs to give you a bit of an incentive to ease your nerves. “I’ll take mine off if you take off yours.” 

Done and done. 

Slowly, carefully, you lie down on your stomach. Never before has a towel felt so rough on your skin. You turn your head to the left and keep your arms by your sides, trying to relax your shoulders. Gladiolus kneels on the bed beside you and takes a moment to enjoy the view. You purposefully have your head turned away from him for this exact reason. ‘Cause Gladiolus Amicitia has never been shy about ogling you. What can he say? He appreciates having such a lovely lover. 

Suddenly, an icy hand grabs your ass and you jump with a startled yelp. “What was that?!” There’s a snort mingled with a half-assed attempt at an apology and you prop yourself up on your elbows to fix Gladio with a burning glare. “Would it kill you to warm that up?! Six!” 

“I’m sorry!” The Shield laughs, cheeks pink. 

“Keep it up and I’ll _make you_ sorry.” With a huff, you’re back on your stomach. It takes a moment for Gladio to grow up and give you a proper massage. Strong hands digging into knotted muscle, the heels of his palms pressing down and pushing up on your back, thumbs trying to make tissue more pliant around your shoulders. It hurts. You make that very, very clear. “Okay! Something popped!” You complain, wiggling around, trying to get his hands off of you. 

“It’s _supposed_ to pop,” grunts Gladio, trying in vain to hold you still. Damn you’re slippery! This is _way_ harder than he thought it would be. Yeah, you’re basically all knots and his hands are beginning to hurt ‘cause it’s like your stress-knots are made of titanium, but he hadn’t factored in how distracting it would be to have your naked body all oiled up and prone before him... Okay, so, given his pure admiration for your form and everything about it, he _should’ve_ known. 

“You sure?” 

The Shield bites his lip at the defeated pout in your voice. “I mean... is anything burning or hurting?” 

After a moment, you reluctantly confess, “ _No_.” 

“Then yeah. It’s supposed to pop. Haven’t you ever had a massage before, Magey?” He’s going to work on your calves now and it’s a struggle not to kick him. If anything, this damn massage is making you _more_ tense since you’ve been having to fight to hold back many reflexes.

“No. The Spire may be home to many a bougie fuck, but it doesn’t have a full-time masseuse,” you joke. The joke falls flat, though, because you sound like you’re being tortured. 

“Hm.” 

Well, this isn’t going at all how Gladio had hoped it would. He thought you might enjoy a massage. People typically do! _He_ does! But you seem so consumed by stress that this is starting to become totally counterproductive. Once he massages out a knot, it’s like five more pop up because you’re restraining yourself from making any noise or from moving around. So, figuring that you aren’t enjoying the massage, Gladiolus slowly begins to ease into another act. Those wicked hands move up your calves, higher and higher. He can feel you tensing up. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, voice a little pitchy. This is still just a massage, right? Gods, you hope not. ‘Cause your body is having a _very_ different reaction to this type of touching. Gladio’s fingers don’t dig deep into muscle, rather they stay feather-light and teasing, barely even touching you. Fingertips dance along the back of your thighs and it takes so much effort for you not to instinctively spread them. Oh, gods you’re thankful that you chose to have your face turned away from him. 

“Want me to stop?” His voice is low, going right to places it shouldn’t be going if this is _just_ a massage. 

You hadn’t even noticed that you were clenching your teeth. When you take too long to respond, Gladiolus grabs the back of your right thigh and runs his hand up, stopping short of where you want it to be. Now you can’t help yourself as you eagerly spread your legs, already aching for him. “No.” It’s breathed out, a hiss and a moan that turns the blood in the Shield’s veins into fire. 

Talented fingers find their way between your quivering thighs, teasingly stroking and adding lube. The bed shifts as Gladiolus gets on top of you, straddling your legs. He leans forward, left hand planted down on the bed beside you while he keeps his right hand exactly where you want it. His breath along your back sends a shiver up your spine. A long groan leaves you as he pushes his index finger inside of you. He gives a few experimental thrusts, crooks his finger, before adding his middle finger. 

Gladio keeps at it, warming you up for the main event even though you think _this_ is the main event. Warm amber eyes enjoy the sight of you writhing beneath him, of your hands clawing at the bedsheets, and especially when you raise your ass to grant him easier access. Each thrust earns him a breathy gasp or a shuddering moan. Each wriggle of his fingers is rewarded with the sight of you burying your face into the mattress to stifle your groans. And for you it ends all too soon because Gladio is suddenly out of you and off of you. 

“After last time, I went and got condoms myself,” Gladiolus informs you, rifling through his pants for his wallet. You’re still sprawled on your stomach in a daze, just barely able to see him from over your shoulder. You almost tell him that that’s not a good place to store condoms, being the know-it-all that you are. Thankfully, you keep that factoid to yourself for now. 

After he’s rolled the condom on, Gladio flips you onto your back and that alone snaps you out of your stupor with a startled yelp. The Shield chuckles at your wide eyes. After last time, he wants to be able to see your face properly when he does this. He wants to be eye to eye with you. It’s been a while since you two have had enough privacy for this, and with no fear of a blond who is _habitually_ in the wrong place at the wrong time stumbling across you two, Gladiolus wants to take full advantage of this moment. 

His kiss is searing and needy and you eagerly return it. Anticipation flutters in your stomach when you realize he’s trying to relax you with deep kisses, positioning himself and waiting for your go-ahead. You press a reassuring kiss to his cheek just as you reach down, take him in hand, and lift your hips. Together, the two of you guide him in and you almost forget how to breathe. Head tilts back, eyes flutter shut, and you make the most obscene noise that Gladiolus Amicitia has ever heard. _That one_ is committed to memory. 

It starts slow enough- more for your benefit than any sort of comment on Gladio’s preferences. But as you adjust to his girth and those languid thrusts stop stoking the fire in your belly, you begin to find yourself more frustrated than aroused. You’re a bit leery of coming on too strong, considering this is the first time you two are doing this. All it takes, however, is you insistently grabbing his ass and pushing yourself down on his cock for him to get the message that you want it rougher. Turns out he was waiting on you all along. 

“You sure?” Gladio asks, staring down at you, eyes like fire.

“Yes.”

The strain in your voice makes Gladiolus clench his teeth. “Tell me when it gets too rough.” 

Not once do you utter a single complaint about how he pounds into you. With each body-shaking thrust you feel tension leave you. Though your thighs begin to ache with his hips slamming between your legs, that low-grade, burning pain feeds something within you that’s been starving. It’s desperation that’ll leave the two of you walking awkwardly for a while. It’s a need for release that leaves you with bruises between your legs and pulls a muscle in Gladiolus’ groin. 

It’s a mutual understanding of a nearly insatiable desire to get lost in one another, to forget the world for just a little while in this primal, clawing dance that has the two of you not particularly caring about how your bodies ache afterward. The aftercare takes the edge off, too: Feather-light kisses on the inside of your thighs and soft, soothing touches over the scratches on his back. It’s only ever this rough when one or both of you have reached your limits. And the putrid shrimp chips always hit the spot afterward.


	55. Noctis: Like There's No Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the continuation of the "sex" scene from Noct's route in the main fic. Now to the main event of fluff, awkwardness, and smut. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, OOC Galore, Intense Tense Flippage, Awkward Dorks, Does That Count as Roleplay?, Nope, No It Does Not, Mage Magnetism, Petty Princes, Coy Mages, Some Fluff, Slightly Sub!Noct, NSFW, Bad Smut, I Mean Hella Bad Smut, Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Penetrative Sex, A Night to Remember

**Like There's No Tomorrow**

“So…”

An awkward attempt at a transition is made. Blue eyes blink up at you, some strange emotion swirling in their depths. Is it uncertainty? Definitely arousal, but it’s poisoned by something else and it makes you look away from the prince who lies beneath you. Noctis’ throat tightens immediately after, choking off whatever else he had to say, if he had anything to say at all.

In your elbow, an acute pain begins to angrily stab at you until you realize you’ve been keeping yourself up on it so as not to put your dirty hand on Noct or, gods forbid, the fancy duvet of your hotel bed.

The awkwardness continues with how stiffly you sit up, straddling Noct’s bare thighs. He shivers at the sudden exposure with your body no longer comfortably warming his. You, however, ignore this cue not because you’re an inattentive lover or because you don’t care for Noct, but because this is a little painful. Silence has yawned on between you two; the appropriate period of time to respond to Noct’s monosyllabic utterance long gone.

Never before has Noct so keenly regretted not being “sexy.” Well, actually, since he first started developing a strong attraction toward you, that regret grew as well. In the wake of your dazzling intellect and charming personality, he’d feel inadequate. Never having been a social butterfly, it’s rather embarrassing to the Crown Prince that he’s even  _more_  socially inept than his hermit mage.

Sure you may stutter. Sure you may stumble over your words, tongue tied in knots. But you’re still charming. That tongue of yours is polished silver of a fine make and it’s sharper than a razor’s edge. Even your laughter, even your social faux pas are  _charming_. And it’s like you always have a quip ready to go. There’s always a joke on the tip of that silver tongue to lift his spirits.

To top it all off,  _you’re_  sexy… At least, Noctis thinks so.

It’s so easy for him to get drunk off of your magnetic personality, a dopey grin on his face just from some godsawful pun delivered with an evil smirk and glimmering eyes. There’s also the touching. The  _sensual_  touching. If he ever described it that way to you, you might laugh considering each time you’ve touched the guy you’ve immediately prayed to Ramuh to allow you to master time spells. (Hell, you can already stop time for enemies and use gravity, why  _can’t_  Ramuh let you mess with time travel, too?)

But  _today_  that regret is hard to ignore.

Blood still buzzes in his veins juxtapose to his release cooling on his stomach. A boundary between you two has been crossed and yet, in the wake of Prompto’s sudden interruption, things backslide into awkwardness at warp speed. Six, you’d swear you’ve just given a hand job to a total stranger… Or maybe it’s  _because_  you two have been going steady that this is becoming painful? You always choke when scenarios are more meaningful, after all.

A petulant part of the prince wants to whine and complain when you stiffly get off of him. A petulant part of the prince wants to cringe and cover his face when you mumble about needing to clean off your hand. You, of course, don’t recognize your own error when you say such a thing.

In the bathroom, you splash ice-cold water against your face and hope that it brings you back to your senses. “ _Be cool!_ ” You mentally order yourself, staring intently in the mirror with a hateful glare. Because you know, deep down, that if you allow this situation to turn sour Noct will let it be. He’s always been wary of his position over you- perhaps _too_  wary. Six, his title as rightful heir of Lucis sure can be a mood killer.

Based off of the talks you’d overhear in the Spire about how “first times” go, the bar is depressingly low for you. However, that’s kind of a good thing. You’ve no lofty goals for yourself that’ll put you in an anxious state. Your only goal is to make sure that you and Noct have a good time. With that in mind, you go digging through your toiletry bag on the bathroom sink’s counter. Lube and condoms. It was strange buying them when you weren’t even sure if you’d  _need_  them.

Thank the gods that you so easily step up to be the one in charge, because while you’re giving yourself a mental pep talk and really pumping yourself up with good vibes to be suave as heck for Noct’s sake, the prince is  _freaking out_. It’s almost comical, really. You’re in the bathroom feeling good and Noct is catatonic on the bed, dying a million painful deaths.

Should he get dressed? Should he stay…  _like this_? The thought has him hastening to cover up with a blanket. Noct isn’t really sure what the etiquette is for a situation like this, considering it’s his first time being in this position. A blush rises to his cheeks as he realizes that he could send the wrong message no matter  _what_ he does. What if he stays naked and you’re done for the night? What if he gets dressed and you  _aren’t_  done, but you read the situation as something along the lines of: “Thanks for jerking me off. Let’s watch a movie now.”

Oh,  _gods_. He might puke. Should he leave? But he said he’d stay…

You have absolutely _no clue_  about the prince’s inner turmoil, because the second you exit the bathroom, Noct is sitting cool and collected on the edge of the bed and he looks over his bare shoulder at you to casually drawl, “Hey.”

A grin winds its way across your lips. “Hey.”

Not a second is wasted as you make your way over to the bed to sit next to your prince. Eagerness comes off of you in dizzying waves, chasing away the knot in Noct’s stomach and replacing it with an exciting buzz that he begins to feel in his toes. That buzzing only grows more intense when he sees what’s in your hand. You decide to soften him up a bit first, placing the materials on the bed between you two.

Like it has a damn magnetic field, Noct can’t keep his eyes off of your nonverbal invitation which he has every intention of accepting.

“I had a lot of fun with you tonight,” you confess, breaking his concentration. Those blue eyes fly up to you, cheeks coloring when he realizes he was caught in his staring. Reclining back on your hands, you stare at the prince from beneath your lashes. Your gaze is downright simmering and a deceptively disarming smile is offered to him. “How have you been?”

Noctis blinks rapidly. How’s he been? After what you two have been up to? The royal snorts, “That’s kinda out of nowhere.” He’s being awfully snarky for someone who isn’t wearing any clothes. I mean, at least  _you’re_ wearing pants.

“I can’t ask how you’ve been?” You wonder, blinking your enchanting eyes dolefully.

_That_ gets color into that pouty prince’s cheeks once more. He looks away, feeling your gaze burn along his bare shoulders and down his back. A twitch comes from between his thighs. “Tch. I’ve been okay. I mean, all things considered.”

“A lot of stress, I presume.”

“Yeah.” Noct stares straight ahead. Since the TV’s menu was left on for too long, a sort of screensaver has started playing on the screen. Various scenic shots transition, fading in and out of view; from mountains to lakes to cities. On the bottom right, the weather is displayed. There’s a chance of rain for tomorrow.

Still leaned back as casually as can be, you suddenly inform your prince, “You’ve been holding up really well, despite the stress. I’m proud of you.”

Now Noct turns back around, a puzzled frown on his face as he stares at you from over his shoulder. “Okay, why are you acting so weird?”

“How do you mean?” A playful chuckle comes tumbling off of your lips. There’s a mischievous glint in your eyes. “I  _always_  ask if you’re okay.”

“Yeah, but this is a bizarre welfare check considering, uh, what we’ve been doing.” Awkward as all hell, Noct shimmies along the bed until he’s facing you. Blankets are self-consciously trapped between his lap and fists. Discomfort is brushed aside in favor of asking you, “Are  _you_  okay?”

“I’ll be a-okay once tomorrow is over and done with,” you admit. Gosh, you don’t want to bring up worries  _now_. But what are you supposed to do? Lie to his face? To his credit, Noctis looks relieved to have you confide in him. It’s a rarity, this sort of vulnerability from the mage. You’ll find that the prince is always eager to assuage your fears and bring you strength. You get just a taste of it now when he places his hand on your knee and smiles softly.

“You’ve gone through two trials with me, (y/n). Tomorrow is just another one.”

What a short but sweet motivational speech. He’s right, you know. You’ve already proven that you’re strong enough to handle whatever the Astrals throw at you. The prince’s compassionate side never fails to bring a smile to your face. You pat the hand that rests atop your knee. “Right. But based on legend, Leviathan is a bit of a bitch,” you point out.

“Yeah? Well, she never had to go up against five badasses before,” the brunet lamely jokes.

“Oh, I’m  _so_  sure,” you snort. A theatrical air is assumed, you lift your chin and flap your right hand about like you’re giving the world’s most boring lecture. “Nothing could possibly prepare her for her greatest adversary yet: Prompto Argentum.”

“Pfft.  _What_? I’m the best fighter in the group.”

Eyebrows rise sky-high at your petty prince’s reaction. “I beg to differ. Prompto has a certain… style,” you gibe. A crooked smirk is now a permanent feature on your face.

Noct huffs, “Hmph.  _Style_?”

Noctis’ desires have never been terribly difficult for you to ferret out. Though you’ve ignored them on occasion since acknowledging them would have made things much more awkward (engagements tend to do that), your previous indifference should’ve never been mistaken for obliviousness. Noct is getting a sense of that now. How you so easily play coy with a man who pretends he isn’t pretending to be coy. You know how he wants to do this.

Eating his satisfying reaction right up, you play on. “Tremendous style. He’d  _have to_  have great style to be  _my_  best friend.” At Noct’s predictable pout, you laugh, “Oh, don’t start with me. You know you’re my best friend, too. You mean a lot to me, Noct. It’s just that Prom has entertainment value. How many people can you name who would risk certain death for a ‘really cool’ photo?”

“Uh-huh,” Noct hums, pretending to sulk.

Something a little dangerous enters that crooked smirk of yours. “I’m terribly sorry for offending you. Should I tell you how much you mean to me, Highness? Would that make up for my lapse in judgment?”

The sultry edge in your tone never fails to get him up. Still, Noctis opts to pout, playing along. “I dunno. I’m pretty offended. You’d have to do a lot of talking.”

You ignore his very obvious erection for the sake of this little game. “Well then,  _maybe_ …” you sigh, rolling your neck and slowly beginning to trail your fingers lightly down your chest and stomach. Blue eyes burn your skin, staring intently as your hand goes lower and lower. He’s as anticipatory as if he’s the one being touched. “I was thinking…”

“Yeah?” You’ve barely finished your sentence when he asks that question. Too distracted by far, he doesn’t blush in embarrassment.

Fingertips stop at the button of your pants. They toy with that small, circular bit of metal. Such a hypnotizing thing to do with a damn button. “Maybe I should  _show you_  how you make me  _feel_?”

“That…” the brunet swallows hard, sweat beading on his brow, eyes not leaving your forefinger which continues to toy with the button on your pants as you wait for his response, “That might work.”

Like he has supersonic hearing, Noct will swear until the day he dies that he heard you slide the button out of place. It’s soundless. He’s just dramatic. The thing that’s as loud as a crack of thunder is the zipper which you undo with a flourish. Then you’re back to taking things slow. Thumbs slide idly beneath the waistband of your underwear before you move your hands to your pants instead, earning you an impatient huff from your audience. Noct is enjoying this despite his complaint.

In truth, he likes to watch you undress and he loves to watch you touch yourself. He likes when you take it nice and slow for him. Buttons take an age while zippers take half the time. You never look him in the eye- that's for later. He likes to feel like you don't realize that he's watching no matter how close he is. You’ll find that removing a shirt must come with fingertips dragging down nipples- one teasing tweak, a hitch of breath. He'll mimic what you do to yourself.

Now that your pants are unbuttoned and unzipped, they’re pulled down your thighs. A hand travels up and up until it settles between your legs where fingers are free to stroke through underwear for just a moment. Then the underwear is removed and your hand resumes its work between your thighs, hips raising off of the bed, head thrown back. Noct doesn’t blink once. Breath stills in his chest a moment before coming out in a shaky huff.

The heat of his breath makes your skin break out into goosebumps, nipples hardening at the sensation. Fingers have become slick. You bring your other hand up to play with your nipples as you exhale a moan of Noctis’ name. He swallows thickly and then scrambles to utilize the items that you so carefully set down between the two of you.

He rolls a condom on with shaky hands. The lube is warm in his palm. His eyelids flutter. The sudden contact against his cock is such a relief that he gives a throaty groan. You don’t open your eyes, already aware of what he’s doing. Beside you on the bed, Noct gives himself a few tentative strokes, eyes never leaving the captivating sight of what you’re doing to yourself. If he uses his imagination, he can pretend that his hand is yours. Throat is so dry. Thighs quiver like mad.

“Noct!”

He has no patience. Absolutely  _none_. The sound of your vigorous activity between your thighs, your sighs, your moans, has the prince pulling you on top of him with greedy hands before you can even register that he’s stopped playing the role of the entranced voyeur. You can tell that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Hell, neither do you. But you manage to take him with minimal fumbling and now he’s the one with his head thrown back, moaning and crying out without a care for your neighbors in this fancy hotel.

He fills you up and you take him as deeply as you can. For a second, the two of you remain still, almost paralyzed at this overwhelming sensation. The warmth that had pooled in Noct’s gut at the sight of you is now an aching throb as you begin to rock against him. You continue to touch yourself as you ride him, thighs burning with the damning pace that you’ve set for yourself- a pace that has Noct unraveling at breakneck speed beneath you.

The feeling of you around him- tight and hot- has his toes curling. Fingers twist in the bedsheets, thighs are full of tension. The prince thrashes under you, nearly knocking you off. One hand is planted against his chest both to steady yourself and to remind him of who’s in charge. He’s warm and sweaty, pale skin flushed pink. “Don’t move like that or you’re gonna hurt yourself,” you barely grind out, desperate not to let on that how hard he bucked up into you felt absolutely amazing.

It’s his old lower-back wound that you’re trying to remain cognizant of. Like hell are you gonna let him hurt himself during your first time together. Limits will be tested  _later_ and when you’re sure that you can treat a potential injury. For your concern, all you get is Noct pathetically nodding his head, eyes screwed shut, and you know he’s already close. If you had any doubts, you feel him twitch inside of you.

That twitching becomes more constant, the prince struggling to stay still as you resume rocking back and forth; taking him deep and pulling away, raising your hips and then relentlessly bearing down on him. Noct’s breathing stutters audibly. Those blue eyes crack open to watch your hips move. In a desperate attempt to ground himself, he grabs your thighs. Wet sounds fill the air, interrupted by gasps and moans. He tries to ignore them but he can’t.

His lips part, eyebrows knit together. “(y/n),” he barely manages to stammer your name out, voice tight, “I-”

“I know!” You gasp, going harder, going faster. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Noct.”

You’re almost there when he suddenly stiffens beneath you and cries out your name. His hips rise off of the bed, his cock throbbing inside of you. You continue for just a little bit longer, just until you can climax. Sweaty hands have gripped your hips now. Noct thrusts up earnestly while he still can. It’s the combination of his fingertips digging into your flesh, the whiny noise that comes from the back of his throat, and the sensation of his thighs shaking between yours that quickly sees you to your release so soon after his.

Without an ounce of grace, you fall off of him, rolling over so your face is buried in a pillow. Ears ring like you might pass out. It only takes a moment for the feeling to pass and for a buzzing, giddy feeling to overtake you. A satiated sigh floats out, light as air, from between your smiling lips.

Noct stares at the ceiling, wide-eyed and out of breath. It takes a second for him to get his bearings and for the room to stop spinning wildly. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse and tinged with hopeful apprehension. Blue eyes glance over to where you lie with your face planted firmly against a pillow. A crooked grin quirks his lips and he carefully traces his fingertips down your spine, making you shiver. “You…” he clears his throat, “wanna do that again later?”

Head moves just a tad, only enough for you peek at the raven-haired royal and spot the dreamy (albeit a little goofy) smile on his face. You turn your face away in embarrassment and laugh into your pillow. “Yeah.”


	56. Prompto: Nicknames pt.2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a request on tumblr for you and Prom accidentally calling each other cute nicknames in front of the guys. Well, I love hittin’ y’all with that second hand shame, so here ya go a million years after the ask. This is the much shorter continuation of “Nicknames” and it's the final part since I don't want to drag this out.
> 
> **Warnings:** Shame is the Leading Cause of Death for Mages, Intense Tense Flippage, SHORT, Sorry Y’all

**Nicknames pt.2**

Honestly, you deserve it.

It’s a million layers of embarrassment. Each layer was carefully crafted by your own hands. The fall was of your own making. It becomes a habit. You both get far too comfortable with this secret, shared thing. Something that elicits darkened eyes and wicked smiles, flushed cheeks and startled laughter. Something not fit for public consumption.

Horrible, over-the-top nicknames.

They’re utilized for harmless manipulation, like to get a blond man-child to drink medicinal tea or to get a mage to kiss said blond just to get him to shut up with the awful names. But, most importantly, they’re a joke. They lift low moods and dry tears. They chase away melancholy and hurt feelings with their absurdity. A bright light in the dark night.

But that all gets turned on its head and you have no one to blame but yourselves.

“Snugglebutt.”

He only says it because it took you so off-guard the first time he called you that. Randomly, he’ll start laughing about it even though it happened  _weeks_ ago. It was a nickname that he slid casually into conversation, “Okay, well, we gotta find more frogs, Snugglebutt, so Noct wants us to hit the road.” You’d stared, mouth slightly agape in confusion, and he’d laughed.

And neither one of you is laughing right now.

In fact, you’re staring into his wide blue eyes like he just stabbed you in the chest; lips slightly parted in shock, world falling out from under you. You’re frozen in the middle of handing him a cup of coffee, back stooped to meet him halfway from his seated position at camp…  _At camp_. In the middle of camp. Right there in camp.  _Right there_. Where  _everyone_  is.

Three pairs of eyes burn into your back. You can almost hear the sound of your skin sizzling. But another sound pounds in your ears. The sound of that cheerful, clear as a bell voice chirping, “Aww, thank you, Snugglebutt!” and the resounding silence that followed. He murdered you and buried you right then and there.

Prompto slowly takes the mug from your hand and it feels like your soul goes along with it. Eyes drop and you look away before righting yourself, lifting your chin, and strolling back over to your seat like nothing happened. The silence is deafening. You sip your coffee and scroll through your phone. After a moment, everyone goes back to business.

Noct calls you over, looking irritated. He needs some help with a torn-up map he’s been collecting the pieces of and you’re always more than happy to render aid. With your help, the coordinates for the next dead-end trip are found. Your raven-haired pal is grateful. Steely blue eyes glint and he offers you a little charming half-smile.

“Thanks, Snugglebutt.”


	57. 19. Myth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An angsty chapter with more foreshadowing. We’ve already looked at what your “grand plan” is for keeping Noctis safe with regard to magic. However, we’ve yet to look at how you end up actually falling out with the guys. Here’s an inarticulate hint. Oh, because I love being tacky as hell, have another song on the house. Beach House’s “Myth.” Obviously I'm taking creative liberties with Luna's death because reasons. Next chapter is super angsty, too. Hooray. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Mega Angst, Forced Foreshadowing, Super Vague, Manipulation, One Mage Tantrum Comin' Up, Well Y’all Had a Happy Chapter Last Time So What Did Y’all Expect?, Major Game Spoilers, Necromancy Isn’t a Game, The Most Secretive Mage, Luna’s Probably Already Tired of Your Shit, Everyone Needs a Break, Absentee Astrals

**19\. Myth**

Life is hardly ever fair. 

It’s a bit silly, really, that something you’d learned so early on in your life must be repeatedly hammered into your head, as if you adamantly refuse to believe the veracity of that statement. You want to plug your ears like a petulant child and rebuke, “Yes, that’s true. But not for _me_!” Even given the wealth of evidence that your own life provides to prove that statement true, it must be relearned. Over and over again, like you’re in a low-budget horror flick that borders on being torture porn: Hit in the head again and again with that fact of life, nearly bludgeoned to death with it because you refuse to accept it. 

There’s a knock on the bathroom door. Eyes blink rapidly and you look around. It’s bright in this tiny room made of linoleum and glass, kept so on purpose so that your numbed daze can’t be interrupted. Still, you’re interrupted by people who don’t burn in the light. You’ve no idea how you got here or how long you’ve been here. Your knees hurt from falling when the crowd surged during your attempt to help evacuate the city. The heels of your palms have been skinned and there’s dried blood at the cuffs of your sweater. Everything stinks of sweat and blood, a bit funny considering your role in Leviathan’s trial assured you of seeing no action. Yet here you are. 

You’d initially felt betrayed when you were informed at breakfast that you would be helping evacuate Altissia and it was stated with the full agreement of everyone at the breakfast table. No, you wouldn’t be by Noct’s side or Lady Lunafreya’s. You would be in the streets, corralling citizens like cattle. The wealth of magic at your fingertips would be put toward _crowd control_. Instinct told you to do the binding spell right then, while you had a chance. But something stopped you. Rather, _someone_. Relief was brought to you by the gecko on your knee that promised to keep an eye on them both, that voice drifting up from under the table. 

And you believed the daemon. You believed that it would protect your prince. Over the time that you got to know it, it hadn’t given you a single reason to doubt it. And it _did_ protect Noctis. It just didn’t protect Lunafreya. 

Noctis Lucis Caelum is asleep in bed, having been recovered from the waters near Altissia. And Lunafreya Nox Fleuret still remains in those waters. 

Hands come up to cover your face, salty tears burn the exposed flesh on your palms. The patient knocking continues on the bathroom door. As foolish as it sounds, you can’t even be properly impulsive. After years of constantly having restraint emphasized in your life, to always be in control of your emotions, you can’t even have a proper cathartic tantrum. Because when you lash out to grab the container of hand soap on the bathroom counter to chuck it at the door, you realize that it’s _glass_ and therefore you shouldn’t throw it because then you’d have a mess of glass to clean up. In your anguish, you forget you've already had a tantrum... 

“(y/n). Noctis is awake.” 

It’s Ignis. That makes your desire to throw something at the door feel that much worse. It’s like someone just punched you in the chest. Bloodshot eyes stare at that door, knowing how patiently Ignis waits on the other side. 

How long have you been in this bathroom, really? As you look around, memories flicker in and out of existence. Knees ache and it isn’t just because they got scuffed. They’ve been bent for an age. That blood on your sweater dried a long time ago. Everything _reeks_ of blood and sweat. Though the lights are kept on in here, you already had a confrontation with the daemon. It hasn’t once stopped calling out to you in your head, something you’ve turned into white noise; ignoring that ugly, pathetic wailing. When you try to stand, it takes you a few attempts to get the feeling back into your limbs. 

“I’ll be out shortly, Scientia.” That doesn’t even sound like your voice. It’s paper-thin and inflectionless, lacking any mirth or impishness. 

Then you hear him move away, the sound of his cane tapping against the tile floor and the decorative table that sits just beside the door. You’re sure Prompto is there, ready to provide assistance at the drop of a hat. You’re sure Gladiolus isn’t, not after the outburst you had. Oh, a memory that you _wish_ was just one of those fake scenarios that one cooks up in their own head- like some hypothetical scenario that feels remarkably out of character to the point that it’s absurd. Well, when confronted by what all went wrong while the trial was considered a “success” because Noct got Leviathan’s blessing, you had an... episode. 

To say that the guys were startled at the sight of you yelling at a gecko would’ve been an understatement. But it was one thing after another that was getting shoveled onto you like you were being buried alive. “Noct is unconscious. He’s fine, but unconscious. Oh, and Ignis is blind now. Lunafreya is dead, by the way.” None of this was told to you in such a blasé manner, of course. But it was the delivery of that last bit, hissed to you with an almost self-satisfied smirk by that gecko because the daemon informed you that it was _Ardyn_ who killed her. “I saw it myself.” You’ve always had a suspicion that, for whatever reason, the daemon wants you to hate Ardyn. 

But it wasn’t the time for that pettiness. Not after just informing you that the woman you’d promised to save was murdered in cold blood by the man you used to consider your best friend when you thought you had nobody. 

Sat together in a rented room, courtesy of the people of Altissia for all of your bravery, you all took inventory of your wounds. It took you a while to regroup with everyone because you had a difficult time finding the daemon since it went eerily silent during the trial. You thought that if things got bad it would intervene. But it did nothing. And you felt like a moron because _of course_ it could do nothing! Not in broad daylight. Yet... a bitterness in you started to fester. “We’ve failed,” you grit out and the guys thought you were talking to them. Your face was expressionless, stoic. Prompto was fretting over the wounds on your hands. 

You’d built yourself so high up, of course it would hurt when you finally fell. Such a dizzying height, such an impact. The strange thing was that despite all of your anxiety about Leviathan’s trial, you never actually expected to fail so epically. Perhaps there would be hiccups in the trial or minor setbacks that you would eventually overcome? You’d set for yourself what you believed to be _realistic_ expectations. Little did you know those hiccups, those minor setbacks, would be the death of Lunafreya and the loss of those green eyes that never failed to give you a kind, reassuring glance. In that moment, the world felt like it turned on you. 

A small, twisted part of you was and still is relieved. For days you’d agonized over the fact that you withheld the truth of your meeting with Lunafreya from the others. It killed you to have to dance around questions about your shady behavior. But now? It’s such a relief. If you’d given in to your guilt and confessed? Oh, you would be an asshole of the highest order, wouldn’t you? To puff everyone up, especially _Noct_ , with foolish hope? “Yes, my _daemon friend_ put a little ward on the Oracle. Everything will be fine!” At least this way, the only fool was you. The only one so puffed up with the type of hope that only a complete simpleton could possess was _you_. 

“We’ve suffered a terrible loss,” Ignis had agreed, placing his hand on the table for you to hold because he couldn’t reach out to you to comfortingly pat your hand like usual. That hurt. The wound in your very soul blackened at that. “But Lady Lunafreya would have been pleased with this outcome, despite how awful it is. Noctis’ safety was what she valued most. His safety _and_ his success. We should all take comfort in that. The mission was a success.” 

You didn’t reach for his hand and Ignis slowly pulled it away, put it back on his lap under the table. 

In that moment, you wanted to scream. How many times, exactly, did you tell yourself that the guys would be “cool” and would “totally understand” that your job only called for _Noct’s_ protection? That they would all nod their heads and understand where you were coming from when you finally revealed the nature of your research? That your sole objective was to protect _Noctis_ and save _his_ life? That you, many a time, stopped yourself from pursuing other avenues of research that would serve to protect _them_? How many times? And you assuaged that guilt with childish enchantments that, in the end, did absolutely _nothing_ to protect them. 

You wanted to scream. And you did. 

“I could’ve done more.” You said it quietly, at first. Then you squared your shoulders and reached out for Ignis. “I can heal him.” 

“You can’t.” It was spoken candidly from the gecko on your shoulder, making you halt as if your hand had hit an invisible wall. The others were completely unaware of the discussion taking place or how it would explode from a tense little one-sided chat into the usually composed arcane advisor trashing the entire room in a fit of rage. 

“What do you mean, I _can’t_?” You spat. 

“Did you master a foundation in white magic while I was looking away, (y/n)?” The daemon was growing frustrated. It felt the sting of failure as keenly as you did, though it didn’t say as much. The abject failure that was your duty to protect the Oracle wasn’t intentional on the daemon’s part. It didn’t mean to give you lofty goals and an even loftier sense of control. Because there’s no such thing as complete control. Not in this world. A familiar failure of a life long gone, it tasted as bitter as ink in a lipless mouth as the daemon could do nothing but watch on as _Ardyn Izunia_ stabbed the Oracle. 

It had tried to find the nearest shadow that it could, but it was still too far away. It watched from the darkness; the only thing it’s been able to do for millennia, a useless bystander in a world that’s  perpetually in motion. It made sure it wasn’t connected to you when it screamed out at that former friend’s back; throat going raw and voice growing hoarse from rage. Blood lingered on its tongue as it felt a small piece of itself, the one connected by a benign ward, fracture. Yet it felt vindicated. At last, Ardyn revealed his true colors in a way that _you_ could no longer ignore. Maybe now the sympathies that you deny are there can finally die. 

“Then _you_ do it,” you’d said, plucking the gecko off of your shoulder and placing it on the table. “Go on,” you jutted your chin out and the daemon could see the lightning crackling in your eyes, “ _do it_.” 

Once upon a time, the daemon used to enjoy being the center of attention. It liked how humans would fawn over it when it had an attractive face, how they’d tremble at the might of its power. How they’d awe over its godly ability to raise the dead and heal the wounded. But sat on that table, under the piercing gazes of humans who only saw it as the bizarre pet of the Mage, with such a wretched visage, in its bitterness it didn’t sugar-coat the truth for you like it usually did. "I can't heal him." 

"Then what's the point of you?!" 

The daemon ignored how much that hurt. Even as a child, you never yelled at it. Even as a child, you didn’t base its worth to you on the services it could provide as if it meant nothing more to you than a useful object. It tried not to snap, it tried to remain calm. It could feel the pain radiating off of you, after all. Like a patient parent, it stressed, voice strained, “(y/n)... I am here to aid you in your quest for your king. I'm in service to you and the King of Light. Only you two.” 

“Then _heal him_!” You stood then, pointed aggressively at the brunet who sat across from you. Gods, you couldn't tell if you were going to be sick or if you were going to cry. You hadn't been able to look Ignis in the face since you saw him. “Ignis is important to Noctis! He’s important to the _entire group_!” The others watched on in confusion but made no move to interrupt your hysterics. Gladiolus was full of tension, wondering if he might have to restrain you for your own good, exchanging a worried glance with the wide-eyed blond who sat beside you. Ignis had never heard so much anguish in your voice before. You sounded completely and utterly defeated. And you were. 

"Would you like me to shed my false skins and reveal myself to him and everyone else in this room? Shed _both_ our false skins in one fell swoop?” The daemon raised its little head in contempt, as if looking at you from the end of its nose. “Would you like my wretched visage to be the first thing that he sees? Would you want him and all the rest to know that _you_ collude with a _daemon_?" 

The damned daemon could’ve ripped your heart right out of your chest and it would’ve hurt less. “I... I can’t...” You’d stammered, feeling ill, feeling like all eyes were on you and Ignis could smell your shame; that he could _sense_ that his returned health would be postponed for the sake of your _pride_. The daemon had always been ready to prey upon how you value image seemingly above all else- how you value your reputation as a moral mage who is careful with magic, how you value that accursed family name that’s more a burden than a badge of honor. The daemon had always been ready to hit you where it hurt the most for your own sake. 

"Reveal your true nature to him, then, if you _dare_ ,” the daemon seethed and Prompto will swear until the day he dies that the silent, contemptuous looking gecko that sat on the table before you had glowing yellow eyes for a split second. “Attempt to heal him if you so desire. However, you should remember what happened the _last time_ you attempted to employ the use of white magic without proper training. You'll hurt him, (y/n)... maybe even kill him. A wound that close to the brain? Are you wanting to heal him or _enthrall_ him, I wonder?” 

It’s such an impact to fall from so high up. In that moment, you shattered into a million pieces the  second you hit the ground. You shattered right in front of everyone. 

When you left the room, the door slammed shut behind you and the windows exploded. While Prompto screamed and Gladiolus threw one arm protectively over Iggy, the daemon sighed to itself in defeat. It’s an embarrassing memory. How you’d yelled at the daemon so rudely, how you’d trashed a perfectly nice room because you couldn’t be bothered to regulate your emotions properly and keep things under wraps. You wish it would just wash off of you like the blood and sweat as you stand under the shower head, scalding hot water burning your skin. But you don’t let yourself forget it. You must learn from it. An exercise in humility. 

It was foolishness. When you think back to the trial and everything that happened immediately before and after, you realize it was foolishness and arrogance. Though you and the daemon liked to think you would have the situation under control, to be able to protect Noct and Luna from the _Hydraean_ , it was a short-sighted arrogance. Because the other key player in the game? The one you’d been wary of all along but never really believed would do anything because of who he used to be to you? He finally made a move and you and the daemon both seemingly forgot all about him; the malevolent malingerer was never so idle. 

And now? You can’t remain idle, either. 

If there’s one thing that you can thank both the Spire magisters and Ardyn for, it’s your cunning nature. It should be considered a talent, how you can conjure up the most crafty plans in the span of a couple of isolated hours. It’s a double-edged sort of talent, for it makes you appear more the villain than even Ardyn Izunia. Because the pretty plot that you prepare to sell to your allies is a lie wrapped in a lie wrapped in yet more lies. They’ll peel back one layer and you’ll seem to be a turncoat, then they’ll peel back another and you’re their friend again. Repeat that ad nauseam and it’s no wonder that in ten years’ time they won’t even know _what_ to think of you. 

The water is turned off and you’re putting on your clothes without even drying yourself properly. That sweater still stinks of blood and your shirt smells of stale sweat. As you button up your shirt, you flip the lights off in the bathroom and wait. Soon enough, the sweet stench of decay mingles with those other pungent odors. You can feel anxious eyes on you. The daemon preyed on your fears and you’ll prey on its as well. You can’t fall in the eyes of your friends and the daemon can’t live without you and will do _anything_ to make up this failure. Such a devious duo, crippling each other because you each think you know what’s best. 

“Are you there?” You wonder, though you already know. Fingers continue to slide plastic buttons between cloth seams. Eyes are kept closed, chin tucked down. Posture screams of stern disappointment. 

“Yes. Always.” There’s desperation in that death rattle of a voice. 

A presence stands behind you, just close enough. No body heat radiates off of that shambling corpse of bone and sinew. You raise your head and look into the mirror. You can’t see much, but two yellow flames for eyes hover right behind you. “I need you to arrange a meeting for me.” 

“A meeting?” There’s a curious intake of breath, a psychosomatic response more than a necessary one. Though the daemon is relieved that you don’t appear to still be upset with its failure, this is a bizarre turn indeed. “A meeting with whom?” 

“Ardyn.”

“(y/n)-”

“And I need one more thing of you,” you interrupt. The way you speak is so stiff and formal, oozing of dissatisfaction and mild contempt. Well, the daemon _knew_ you might still be upset with how it refused to heal Ignis Scientia. However, it would like to have it put on the record that it didn’t say it would _never_ heal him... just not when exposure might jeopardize your mission. But it wonders what you hope to gain by meeting with Ardyn. Will you attempt to kill him? Many have tried. He might even let you think you’ve done him in if he’s in a joking mood. More likely than not, however, you’ll end up dead. That would be a tricky situation. 

The daemon sighs, “Ask of me what you will.” 

“Bring me the Oracle’s body,” you order and then you flick the lights back on and exit the bathroom to see to Noctis. 

Life is hardly ever fair. You know that better than most. 

But the stark difference between you and most people is that you have the capacity to change that. Through the perversion of the natural order, the bending and ultimate breaking of laws, you’ll level the playing field. Life is hardly ever fair, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t try and get away with cheating. And when push comes to shove, when you find that being moral with magic hurts you more than it helps, you fill a role in the world that had been vacated for some time. For everybody loves a pragmatist but nobody wants to be one. You make the tough calls that cause people to hate you. You willingly ruin your reputation as a moral mage for the greater good.

* * *

The nights have grown longer. While others lament this development and ascribe it to the Oracle’s death, you secretly revel in it. For it provides you with just that much more time to be who you think you need to be. It provides you with just that much more time to engage in what might be an exercise in futility. Calling out for Lady Lunafreya in the darkness has been met with deafening silence. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to stop any time soon. 

You knew that that might be the case with Lunafreya, after all. Her duty, of course, had been fulfilled, leaving her with no reason to linger. Noctis passed the Hydraean’s trial with flying colors as you all, he included, suffered the consequences. In the few days that follow, those consequences don’t feel like the type of things that help one grow. They don’t feel like pain with a reason. They feel like senseless, needless agony. They feel like having a loved one disown you and spit in your face. 

It’s a little odd, then, that this type of pain is the kind that you flourish under. Such harsh conditions for such a bizarre creature to thrive in. Like bacteria in a volcano or a disease that laid in wait in permafrost. Doom and gloom is the backdrop for your transformation, of sorts. It always has been and always will be. When you were a child, faced with the needless deaths of your aunt and grandfather, you weren’t quite the innocent fool everyone took you for. 

You were a child, yes, _of course_. But that didn’t mean that you were oblivious. You’d never truly been oblivious. You could understand an unkind look- grimaces, sneers, all of that. You could understand sympathetic looks; the type of expression your mother always had for you when you were young. And when the magisters lined up to give you and your mother their sympathies after Tacitus died, you saw the sympathetic frowns on the lips and the sneers in the eyes. 

Under such conditions, you transformed to meet the challenges you faced in your environment. The little daemon child, most called you behind your back. It only got worse as you grew. Scathing criticism that cut right down to the marrow delivered with the most serene smile, spoken in the most respectful and almost reverent tone. You were always the Spire’s daemon child; a creature of their own making, a Frankensteinian monster that readily turned on its creator. 

But you won’t make yourself into another type of monster. At least, not yet. What you believe the people you love most all need right now is a _hero_. And in Noct’s quiet absence, in his reserved depression, that is the environment that you draw your strength from. It’s his suffering that fuels you. It’s the knowledge that _you_ could have prevented his suffering that truly drives you. And really? He would absolutely hate to know all of this. However, he isn’t exactly alone in his status as your macabre muse. 

Ignis Scientia. It’s almost absurd, the mask he wears. 

Until you realized that he only wears it around Noctis _and you_. Until you realized that he only wears it because he perceives you to be in as much a fragile state as Noct. Ignis pretends that the loss of his sight isn’t devastating. He carries on almost as usual. And then, one day, while you were all about to eat and Gladio and Noct had gone up ahead, he slammed his fist against a wall in frustration and Prom consoled him. And you were there behind them, without Ignis having realized. And you just stood there like you walked in on an intimate moment. 

You didn’t go and have lunch with everyone. You didn’t put your own mask on and pretend to be the stoic yet impish mage. You stayed behind and analyzed how your great outburst changed everyone’s perception of you. 

In the face of terrible loss, you didn’t stay strong; you crumbled almost immediately and left the others to pick up the slack. Now Prompto is running around to be a caregiver to Noctis, Ignis, you, _and_ Gladiolus. ‘Cause now Gladio is brooding at this shift in the group’s dynamic that nobody wants to address. He’s pissed that Iggy got blinded, Noct is a zombie, and that you _massively_ flipped your shit, locked yourself away, and then acted like it didn’t even happen. He’s angry that everyone is acting like everything is normal when it isn’t. 

Something has to give. You agree wholeheartedly. And on day seven of suffering through this poisonous atmosphere, you’re finally given a chance to make your move. 

“Why me?” 

Sometimes you wonder whose life you’re living. Certainly not yours. You’re _supposed_ to be a boring hermit mage; someone whose hand was held practically all their life by uppity magisters and their own overprotective but ultimately well-meaning mother. You were supposed to be a pencil-pusher. You were supposed to see the Shield and the tactician maybe once a month for meetings with your King and that would be the extent of your usefulness, the extent of your social interaction. 

You aren’t supposed to be standing on the opposite end of a room from a corpse, preparing to raise the Oracle from the dead with the guys all sound asleep down the hall from you in an old motel. 

When you all moved on from Altissia after picking up the pieces of your shattered lives, you began to have your doubts about whether or not the daemon would be able to deliver on this odd request of yours. Though it had already planned your little meeting with Ardyn like you'd asked (it didn't reveal to you that it thought Ardyn was secretly _so pleased_ by the idea that you would finally stop trying to get yourself brutally murdered for someone else's sake, but it _did_ note that he probably still didn't trust you for obvious reasons) it had yet to find her body. 

Instead of taking it as a bad sign, you took it as a hidden blessing to allow you more time to find her soul. Days went by with its recovery efforts turning up empty and you kept looking for a lost soul. Certainly it seemed impossible to find one woman in that large body of water. But that ward? The one to keep track of her? The one that couldn't actually _do_ anything to protect her? It has finally served its purpose and now you find yourself awakened at nearly two in the morning with  a dead body in your room. 

You barely cut your teeth as a novice necromancer years ago and here’s the daemon, arms crossed and bluntly informing you that _you’re_ the one who has to raise Luna from the dead. Feet that are missing a few toes pace impatiently on a floral-printed rug that’s seen better days. There are odd stains everywhere and you might faint if you actually took a blacklight to this room. But the overall sticky and musty atmosphere is the furthest thing from your mind right now because, well, there’s a dead body in here and dirty sheets tend to take a backseat to that. 

Everything about Lunafreya looks ghostly. Her skin is almost an odd greenish-gray. The smell... It’s probably a blessing that the waters she died in were so cold. 

“It _must_ be you,” the daemon sighs, snapping you from your trance. “Though I’ve raised the dead many a time in my corrupted state, the souls of those from the Oracle line are too full of light for me to touch without being forced to ascend. Even a normal human soul poses me _some_ harm, I must admit. Each human has a lightness in their soul that’s dangerous for one such as myself to go near. Unless, of course, it has been corrupted. Which isn’t the case here, hence the necessity for _you_ to perform the spe- Why are you making that face?” 

“I just... I’ve never really seen a dead body before,” you admit, voice barely even a whisper. It’s so strange to see Lunafreya like this, soaked and discolored, skin almost translucent. Her eyes are open. Almost childishly, you wish the daemon had closed her eyes. Whatever philosophical internal debate you’re about to have about the fragility of life is cut short by the daemon pointedly gesturing toward its own body. “Oh.” You deadpan. “Right.” You’ve been hanging around with a literal dead and far more decayed body for a long, _long_ time now. 

When you’ve had enough of staring at the corpse of Lunafreya Nox Fleuret on your motel room’s floor, you suggest that the daemon move her to the bed. It’s an optimistic suggestion. Very, very optimistic. For one, decay has most obviously begun on the body and another pin that should deflate your optimism is that you’ve yet to find her soul. That perceptive creature hones in on at least one of your concerns and proclaims, “I’ll restore the body but I _cannot_ touch her soul.” 

It seems to be under the impression that there’s still a soul to touch. 

“Okay,” you breathe, rubbing your hands rather anxiously over your face. This still feels like a dream. This _past week_ has felt like a dream. Since your great blowout with your familiar, the guys have been handling you with kid gloves. Prom speaks to you in a low voice and Gladdy silently brings you food like he’s bringing offerings to some vengeful god of junk food. Even Ignis, in his condition, tries to lift your spirits with lighthearted chatter, as if he wasn’t the one handicapped while you only wound up with a bruised ego. 

It’s like you’ve been living in some alternate reality where your friends don’t think that you’re capable of taking care of yourself and instead of getting aggravated with you, they try and placate you. It’s almost infuriating but you know you did it to yourself. Mage temper tantrums aren’t your everyday temper tantrum and they’d never been exposed to one before. Because you’ve been _good_. Up until Lunafreya’s death and Ignis’ injury, you were remarkably solid even when flustered or on the rare occasion that you took ill. 

Decima would’ve been proud. Truly. She’d always worried about you in that regard; you’d always been just a bit too hot-tempered than was safe. And unlike your grandfather Tacitus, you’ve never been one to go and “blow off steam” by pulverizing rocks or razing fields. You’ve always be conscientious of keeping it bottled up, nice and tight under a pretty layer of propriety. Such hyper-vigilance left the others unaware of what you can do just because you’re distressed. 

It wasn’t even an accident. You _wanted_ the daemon to know that you were upset with it. But part  of you thinks your friends might be afraid of you now as a consequence. 

“This will be a prime opportunity for you to observe and learn. Pay attention,” the daemon yet again interrupts your musings. Honestly, you’re only getting so distracted on purpose. To say that it’s upsetting for you to see Luna like this would be the understatement of the godsdamned century. Part of you is pissed with the daemon for not repairing the damage done to the body before but instead capitalizing on the opportunity to show you how it’s done. Yes, that’s helpful. But... really? _Really_? Couldn’t that be done with a stranger or a dead animal? 

Incandescent bulbs do almost nothing to properly light the small space, casting odd shadows from the pitiful amount of furniture in the room. There’s a bed and a desk for some reason. No dresser for your clothes or even an armoire. The desk doesn’t come furnished with a chair so there’s nothing for you to pull up, leaving you to stand nervously by the daemon’s side. A scholarly mask has to be put on for you to be able to watch; one manufactured of indifference, one with no emotional attachment to Lady Lunafreya. 

“Remember what I said before,” the daemon murmurs, voice soft and even. Fiery yellow eyes are trained on the body. “Reverse the damage; the rot, the decay. Try to find what might have ended the life, if possible. That will make your work easier, though it is not necessary for total regeneration. In this instance, I bore witness to the wound. However, the lungs...” That withered hand hovers just over Luna’s chest. “She drowned before she could bleed out. This will be something that you can feel in your own body when you perform this magic.” 

“How do you mean?” 

A tut, a shaking of a head that’s more skull than anything else. “Regenerative necromancy is a full-body experience for the mage, it’s not some sort of casual magic. When you perform it, you get a sense of how the creature that you’re restoring perished. It helps you to make a judgment on if you want to proceed with the spell or not.” 

“Why wouldn’t you want to?” 

“In this case? There isn’t any reason why I wouldn’t proceed. In the future, though, there might be an instance where you’ll go to perform the spell and you’ll get a sense that completing it would require too much life force than you’re willing to part with. Different wounds can require different amounts. For instance, death from unnatural cardiac arrest due to, perhaps, a surge of electricity,” it gives you a pointed glance, “is much more simple than restoring someone who was ripped to pieces, devoured by an animal, and then passed through that animal.” 

“Holy shit,” you mumble, not just because of the subtle jab it gave you over your incident with a coeurl, but because of that wild example. Would it really be worth it to try and restore someone an animal crapped out? Gosh. 

Bony shoulders shrug. “What? I was giving you two examples from opposite ends of the spectrum with regard to difficulty in regenerating.” That cadaverous face turns away from you to focus on Lunafreya. Sinewy hands press down on her abdomen, the white fabric of her soiled dress shifting beneath those charred palms. “Now, allow me to concentrate a moment. Pay close attention and keep in mind that when I do this, it is with full conscious intent of repairing damage and trading away life force. You must always keep the ends of a spell clear in your mind.” 

You nod, feeling oddly tense. “Okay.” 

Like the window was left open, it begins to feel drafty in the room. Temperature lowers and lowers until breath becomes visible steam. Those intense, lidless eyes bore into nothing, staring off at something that you cannot see. Exposed teeth part slightly, that pink tongue visible as the  daemon lets out a sigh that seems to fill the room. Later, it will tell you that the humans it used to perform this magic around would call it the “Breath of the Gods.” You’ll squint and chuckle but the daemon isn’t joking. People will call it that when you perform it, too. 

Slowly, that gray skin turns pink. Life seems to bleed out from under the daemon’s hands, bringing a sudden flush of color to Lunafreya’s skin. The bits and pieces of her that were torn away while she was in the water reform. It’s a blossoming of life from death and beside you the daemon’s aura feels like a negative vortex of cold, volatile energy. Standing so close feels almost dangerous, like the daemon is a sponge that might steal your life away if you touch it. Just as you’re about to give in to instinct and move away, the daemon straightens itself and steps back. 

It admires its handiwork for a moment, eyeing the shine to that blonde hair and the vibrant blue of those eyes. Lunafreya almost looks like an eerily lifelike doll. It’s a relief to no longer have to see her in that decrepit state, but this? It’s odd. Brief relief gives way to anxiety when the daemon gives you an anticipatory look. “There. She’s a mere thrall now, but that will change the second you guide her soul back to her body,” says the daemon, so sure and without a single doubt of your ability to find Lunafreya’s soul. 

“ _Well, shit._ ” 

No pressure, right? Not like the daemon just traded away a bunch of life force to be able to restore and give some semblance of life to Lunafreya’s body, right? For days you’ve been attempting to reach out to Luna while the daemon has been away. You’d hoped that she would have followed you all or something, considering Noctis’ state. But if she’s still lingering in this realm, you haven’t been able to find her. You can only hope that the mere act of restoring her body would be enough to bring her here. 

Gods, why couldn’t the daemon check first like it said you’re _supposed_ to do before attempting fully regenerative necromancy? It went through great pains to hammer that point home when it taught you about it. Does it have that much confidence in you? Yes. Yes, it does. But you’re so sure that Lunafreya Nox Fleuret doesn’t have unfinished business. That fact is what makes you so apprehensive and so fearful of letting the daemon down- letting _yourself_ down. But you can’t let your doubts stop you now. 

“Why are you laughing?” The daemon suddenly wonders and you’re surprised to find that, yeah, you’re laughing like a lunatic. To be frank, this is a ridiculous situation for you to find yourself in after all of your schooling and all of the scary stories your mother told you in the hopes that you wouldn’t do _exactly_ what you’re about to do. You’re the moral mage. Yet... Here you are, the moral mage bending magical law to suit your needs. Morality is truly gray, you suppose. ‘Cause how could bringing Lunafreya back be _wrong_? 

The daemon is still looking at you curiously and you stop your laughing long enough to explain, “I’m just imagining Ramuh right now, just... asking Bahamut and Shiva if he should strike me down now or save it for later.” 

“That hardly seems amusing,” fusses the daemon, looking mildly uncomfortable. It won't _ever_ tell you of the minor confrontation that it had with Shiva herself when it went looking for the Oracle's body. However, it now knows for a fact that nobody is about to strike you down for raising the Oracle from the dead. Those skeletal arms cross over its exposed ribs and if it had lips it’d be pouting. Too human for its own good. That's what it gets for hanging out with you. 

“It’s funny because in my head it’s like a lame comedy where he’s the dad who is too lazy to actually parent the kid and is looking for reasons to defer his parenting to someone else while the kid is running into the street or sticking a fork into the electrical outlet or something and he’s sitting on the couch watching TV and just irritated that he has this annoying ass kid that he has to  look after.” The daemon stares at you as you take a breath. “And Bahamut is like, ‘Nah, they’re fine. My kid did stupid crap like that and he turned out just fine!’ Meanwhile-” 

“Enough. You’re stalling. And while I understand your hesitance, we really mustn’t delay.” 

“Fu- Fine.” Taking another breath, rolling your shoulders like you’re about to go for a run or something, you stretch your arm out in front of you, holding your hand over Lunafreya’s body. Fingers are splayed but you don’t focus your energy just yet. Instead, you give the daemon a grim look and inform it, “If I’m successful, I’m going to need you to take Lady Lunafreya somewhere secret. No one can know that she’s alive.” 

“Oh?” It cocks its head, genuinely curious. “And why would you keep something as wonderful as the Oracle being alive and well a secret?” 

“Because Ardyn needs to believe that she’s dead,” is your blunt and pragmatic response. “The less people who know the truth, the better.” Including the guys. As much as you would love to bring Noctis closure, you can’t risk exposure. Your meeting with Ardyn hasn’t taken place yet because finding Luna’s body and reviving her has been your priority. Plus, you want the redhead to think that this meeting is something you’ve been deeply contemplating and agonizing over. The ruse needs to go down sweetly and smoothly like mulled wine in his mouth. 

“Why do you want to deceive him?” Hisses the daemon but there isn’t displeasure in that voice. It seems to savor this craftiness of yours that is directed toward Ardyn Izunia. The dim light from the incandescent bulbs appears to be swallowed up by those evil eyes, making them glow preternaturally. That hiss and that peculiar look in its eyes has you raising your chin and narrowing _your_ wicked eyes at the daemon defensively. 

“The element of surprise shouldn’t be taken for granted. I don’t know what he’s working toward and I need him to think that everything’s going to plan for him. Besides, if he learns that I’m practicing necromancy, going back behind him and cleaning up his messes, _that_ might just be reason enough for him to finally strike me down.” And you aren’t lying. You’re very much aware of the knife’s edge that you stand on with regard to Ardyn’s affections. His sympathy is a thing that’s easily snatched away. 

“Indeed.” The daemon pauses. It knows better than most how that man can turn. The sting of his displeasure is the kind that lasts, the shadow of his turned back is inescapable once one finds themselves in it. “Well, give it a try. I’ll be here to provide you with a source of life as your... What did you call me? Your daemonic necromancer sugar dadd-?” 

“Don’t! That was a joke.”  


Those arms cross even harder, if that’s possible. “Hm. This is _hardly_ a joking matter, (y/n).” 

“I _know_ that. I made the joke before today, if you’ll get off my back and remember properly,” you huff but the daemon is unmoved. 

Irritated, eyes close and you try to center yourself. You allow quiet darkness to descend upon you and the world fades away, swallowing you into eternity. Your heartbeat is a backdrop; peaceful and steady, the only thing that you can hear in this void. Eyes slowly open and you find yourself standing in what might be a dark room. Though you can’t spot anything for as far as your eye can see, you’re aware of well-defined boundaries that serve as walls. Everything feels like it’s slowed down here, even your breathing. But your heartbeat remains constant. 

“Lady Lunafreya?” You call out into the void. That call almost seems like it bounces off of those nonexistent walls after getting stuck on them as if they’re made of molasses, but not once does  your voice echo back to you. Instead it becomes warped, a bit deeper, sounds like an agonized moan that reverberates deep in your chest. It makes your skin prickle, that ugly, foreboding noise. Still, no one responds to you. Heartbeat quickens, palms sweat. “Luna?” You call again, more forceful and assured. 

“(y/n)?” That responding voice sounds tinny and far away, perplexed and maybe a bit relieved. It sounds off from somewhere behind you and as you turn around, the void ripples around you and you’re blinded by pure white light. She can see you but you can't see her. She wants to ask you what you think you're doing here, but then you're gone. By the time you regain your sight, you’re back in the dingy motel room with the daemon and Luna’s body. 

Yellow eyes peer at you. “Well?” 

It takes a second for you to regain your bearings in this plane, for you to adjust to the feeling of being corporeal. “She’s here,” you sigh in relief. Not once do you question _why_ Lunafreya would have unfinished business after having helped Noctis fulfill his duty. Too caught up in that intoxicating relief, not once does it cross your mind that after everything that you’d revealed to Lunafreya, after everything that you’ve steeped yourself in now, _you_ have become her unfinished business. 

“Then you know what to do. Just like I taught you.”  


With a nod you close your eyes once more and shake the feeling back into your hand. “Right.” 

Energy pools in your palm, the daemon grabs your shoulder in a viselike grip. In the void, you find her once more. You reach out and she hesitates before going to you. That blinding light approaches, feeling like sunshine against your face. For one moment you’re both the most selfish and most selfless being in Eos. For one moment you dance on the edge of life and death and exist in both states at once. A hand withered by rot and decay grabs yours and yanks you back into the realm of the living just as you grab hers. 

“Arise!” 

The second Lunafreya Nox Fleuret breathes the first breath of her second life, you’re on the floor of an old motel room; sprawled out, unable to breathe for the pressure on your chest. It’s almost comical how she immediately knows exactly what’s been done to her and you, the necromancer, are the one laid out like someone decked you. It’s a strange energy that buzzes through your body and makes you feel like you might burst. For a moment you feel outside of yourself, like you can’t exist in your own body with all of this energy taking up space. 

You can’t breathe but for some reason that doesn’t make you panic. You should panic, shouldn’t you? Especially at the feeling like there are hands inside of your head and chest, gripping your insides and squeezing so tight? Yet it’s somehow invigorating, makes you feel alive, makes you feel like you’re... More aware? But you can’t even move a muscle. You can’t speak. All you can do is lie there as the daemon helps Lunafreya sit up on the bed and then it suddenly looks down at you. 

“(y/n).” 

Then, just like that, all of that excess energy is gone and you suffer the immediate consequences of holding your breath for so long. With a gasp you sit up and scramble to stand, blood rushing to your head all at once. The carpet burns the palms of your hands as you tilt forward and fall back down on your knees, losing your balance so easily. Someone’s laughing at you. It’s an obnoxious sort of laugh that has you glaring up at the daemon as it helps you up. 

“I told you to raise her from the dead, not raise her from the dead and then cling onto the energy surge,” the daemon chuckles. It’s tickled that your first reaction to feeling a foreign life  
force coursing through your body was to try and hold on to it instead of allowing it to ebb and flow freely. You're only a conduit, after all. Well, at least this time around. The daemon supposes that if you start amassing your own years that you've traded magic for, it's going to have to teach you how to properly contain them without losing all bodily function. 

“ _Oh_. Silly me! Be more specific next time or, I dunno, fucking _warn me_ that that might happen!” Well, you had no idea that necromancy would feel like that, that returning a human soul to a body would feel both amazing and traumatizing. Fingers rub a welt on the back of your head. “Thanks for holding me, by the way. Glad to know where your priorities lie: Catch the mage who was standing up and nearly gave themselves a concussion _or_ pretty yourself up and then go to the Oracle who was safely lying down on a soft bed,” you gripe. 

The daemon totally ignores how you call it out for taking the time to put on Orion’s skin in the Oracle’s presence. “Fret not, dear. It shouldn’t happen again now that you’re familiar with the feeling.” 

You’re about to ask what the _hell_ makes the daemon think that you’re going to do this _again_ when you hear a soft, “(y/n)?” Lunafreya Nox Fleuret does her best to refrain from entering lecture mode with you. You've just given her life, after all, and she fears you might be in a fragile state. Now isn't the time to tell you your fate. Now isn't the time to tell you what she saw when you brought her back into the realm of the living. 

“Lady Lunafreya. Are you feeling okay?” You approach apprehensively, for her expression is peculiar. She looks wary, sullen. You’d thought she might be ecstatic about being alive. _You’re_ certainly ecstatic. Because _holy shit_! You brought someone back to life! If you concentrate hard enough, you can still feel that bizarrely intoxicating energy buzzing in your fingertips; it’s sharp and cold, feels like you’re running your fingers over razors just hard enough to begin to break the skin without drawing blood. It feels like power. 

“I’m fine.” Blue eyes take you in. You look shaken. You look changed. 

While you had mourned Lunafreya’s death and now celebrate her life, now she’s forced to mourn _your_ life. Today marks an important day in your development as the Mage. In this moment, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret knows that to be true. Beneath your ill complexion, pride blossoms forth. Your eyes gleam with it. Suddenly, you’re so sure of yourself. Suddenly, you’re too sure of yourself. It’s a dangerous kind of pride that you possess. The one who stands beside you used to possess it, too. It’s why they are now the pitiful creature that they are. 

“Are you sure?” Hand comes forward to press against her forehead. It’s a familiar gesture that brings color to her cheeks. But you’re feeling a little less meek than before in her presence. “Your temperature is normal, as far as I can tell. Are there any side-effects to necromancy?” You look beside you to the handsome Spire mage. 

Big brown eyes blink owlishly. “None whatsoever. Not for fully regenerative necromancy, at least. Even given the fact that we traded off midway, there are no negative effects for the one revived.” 

Those soulful blue eyes watch the daemon. Oh, how crafty it is, even with the one it loves most. Though you nod your head, totally reassured, Lunafreya knows better. The former princess of Tenebrae knows a thing or two about deceivers. To put it bluntly, she can see beyond the bullshit. It has been a talent of hers since she was a child. And this daemon? Though its love for you is true, it’s a liar. That corruption runs too deep. And you’re too much of an optimist, you _need_ the daemon too badly for you to rip the veil from your own face. 

There are no negative effects _for the one revived_. 

Luna heard that immediately. And though she will tell you time and time again to be wary of the daemon that you call a friend, you won’t really listen. You’ll reassure the woman who will become your greatest confidante that you won’t be fooled- that you know that the creature is a daemon and is corrupt. You’ll tell her time and time again. Yet, in the end, you’ll have so few people in your corner that that old loneliness in your heart will be taken in by the beast. 

And as Lunafreya sits with you in that old motel room and you tell her your plan, as you reassure her that everything will be all right, she believes you and she trusts you. The Oracle holds the Mage’s hand in hers and does her own share of reassuring. There’s a coldness to your skin, she notes with a startled blink. It’s not vocalized, not brought up just yet. It’s a strange sort of coldness that almost burns to the touch. And in that moment, she knows that what she saw when you brought her back wasn't merely a manifestation of her own fears. 

As you ask for the daemon’s input, as Lunafreya watches its stolen face light up, she knows that your descent will be a painful thing to watch, indeed.


	58. 20. Mortalis (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As previously stated, I’m assuming that the time between chapters in the game is a few weeks (so, a few weeks between the end of 9 and beginning of 10). So, naturally, that’s how this is gonna pan out. The next couple of chapters will cover that time-frame and they’ll span across the game’s chapters 11-13 before then continuing on to cover the ten-year gap in a very angsty manner. 
> 
> Also! Lots of assumptions, I know, but because the scourge isn’t being combated for this AU, that’s solid enough for darkness to descend. The Oracle line doesn’t have to get snuffed out for that to happen. Everything continues to go to plan. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Angst, All About that AU, Forced Foreshadowing, Just Magey Things, Mages Making Bad Decisions, Noct is Too Resigned, And You're Unfair, Moody Prompto, Ignis is Tired, He Needs a Long Vacation, Too Bad He Won't Get One For Ten Years, Gladiolus is Tired of Your Shit, Regrets

**20\. Mortalis**

**Noctis**

Going about business as usual is almost too easy for you. Should that worry you? You aren’t too sure. What affords you adequate cover is that embarrassing outburst of yours because _nobody_ asks you anything other than how you’re doing. Are you okay? Did you sleep well? How are your hands feeling? It’s almost embarrassing. _Almost_. Secrecy is mistaken for you mourning and trying to hide your emotions to avoid another outburst. No one suspects that you raised the Oracle from the dead and had the daemon spirit her away. 

Why would anybody think you’d done something so outlandish and then kept it to yourself rather than reveal it to them all and assuage their guilt and their grief? When the truth comes out- oh, and it _always_ does- the fact that you raised Luna from the dead and _didn’t_ tell any of them is what the guys have a hard time coming to terms with. It’s insulting. The fact that you didn’t trust them enough with that information? That you let them live their lives believing that she had died and _stayed_ dead? 

After it’s revealed, everything else unravels like a loose ball of yarn in your hands. It goes spilling out from between your fingers as you struggle to keep it all together in a perfect little ball. Because Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, once she’s discovered, will be your secret keeper no more. Not when she’s borne witness to how you’ve suffered for the sake of those secrets, how you’ve suffered for a world that largely comes to turn its back on you and look at you like a villain. She’s never been the type to abide slander, that Luna. 

But when the jig is finally up, as they say, the one left reeling the most is Noct. Because when he reemerges into the world, he knows that he missed a lot. What he doesn’t realize is exactly _how much_ he missed. Unable to be there to see your metamorphosis, he’s left with a very jarring before-and-after of the mage he left behind. And it goes beyond the physical. It’s a change that starts _today_ when you sit everyone down and tell them your devious little plan that seemingly everyone but you can see spells your doom. You sit them down to say goodbye. 

Even when you ran it by Luna, she’d pursed her lips and told you, “Absolutely not. (y/n), I think you greatly overestimate the protections you’ll be afforded once you make it into that... inner- circle.” She’d held your hands in hers and scolded, “You’re not immortal and you are _not_ impervious to harm even if you believe the chancellor will protect you because he finds you _useful_. What if he finds that you’re no longer of any use to him? What then, (y/n)? You’ll be surrounded by the enemy without a single ally to help you.” 

“That’s not entirely true,” you’d replied curtly, turning your eyes onto the daemon who had straightened its back proudly in response. 

No one can convince you that you _don’t_ need to be close to Ardyn to try and figure out what he’s doing. You want to be there to stop future attacks or to at least inform the others so they can land a preemptive strike and avoid harm. When Ardyn had first approached you about the offer, you’d been too offended to realize what an opportunity he was presenting you with. The hen house had practically been opened nice and wide for you to trot right on in. The Empire beckoned for the wily fox. 

Still, you have to fight off nerves even as you tell yourself that this is the most sensible course of action. You’re all sat in a diner, picking at your food, when you spring this plan on all of them. The diner is mostly empty and you’re seated between Gladio and Prompto. Everyone eats in relative silence. It’s literally a day after you raised Luna from the dead. Boy, do you move fast once you’ve got a plan going. It’s almost as if you’re running on borrowed time. 

Wilted greens get pushed around your plate for a few minutes. Stomach ties itself into tight knots. Prompto strikes up a conversation with Iggy about which dog breed is the best and Gladio pipes in to make a strong case for pugs. Gods, you don’t want to spoil a conversation about dogs. But you suppose there’s really no good time to bring this up; to reveal yourself for the fibber that you are for the sake of liberating yourself and providing yourself with the opportunity to be _useful_. 

Six, the Spire sure did a number on you; wrapping up your self-worth in your utility. 

This wild idea of yours is sold to your closest allies as an infallible thing. Confidence radiates off of you even as you stab at salad. Your loyalty is unwavering and unquestionable. Logically, they all think that the only bad thing that could come of this is that you might be found out and harmed. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll blur the line between enemy and ally. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll make them question your motives. Because you? You’re a damn fine actor. Maybe too fine an actor, truth be told. 

You pretty much spent your whole life learning how to sniff out lies and how to keep _yours_ from getting sniffed. It’d never occurred to you that not everybody lived that way. Some people are far more trusting than others- certainly more trusting than _you_. These guys that you’ve befriended? They aren’t exactly easy prey for deceivers. Case in point: Their suspicion of Ardyn. It helps you to rest easy knowing that they won’t be anyone’s fool, especially not Ardyn Izunia’s even before he overplayed his hand. 

But their distrust of the redhead makes what you tell them far more difficult than need be. Ardyn revealing his malicious nature makes it that much more difficult for you to convince your friends that pretending to throw in with him is a good idea. It’s a hard sell. Convincing others that you _aren’t_ actively working against your best interests is basically a talent of yours by this point. I mean, how many times have you convinced Noct that you wouldn’t get sick from eating both yours and his portions of food at dinner only to get ill immediately after? 

“You want to _what_?” The Shield all but growls, dark eyebrows knitted together, pugs and his burger long forgotten. It takes a bit of effort for him to refrain from cuffing the back of your head, this idea is so harebrained. 

If there’s one thing to be said about you, it’s that you move quickly. When you think that your friends might be in peril, you’re swift to act as if you have absolute impunity. It takes everyone by surprise because they’d all been working under the assumption that you’ve been depressed or, at the very least, in a very foul mood. And now you approach them with _this_ : A scheme that almost seems to spell your doom even as you hold your chin up like you own the damn world. 

How long have you been planning this, they all wonder. Noctis isn’t quite as surprised as everyone else, though, because you’ve revealed more of yourself to him than to anyone else. The royal knows that you’re the sort to plot quietly. You don’t bluster until you’re sure that your plan will go off without a hitch. And right now? With the arrogant way that you hold yourself in a diner that stinks of grease? You’re blustering. And Noctis wishes that that could bring him comfort right now like your confidence usually does. But it really, really doesn’t. 

Because he can read between the lines. He knows what you’re working up to telling everyone before you can even say it. This is goodbye. This is where your path deviates from his and you’ll walk by his side no longer. Those steely blue eyes watch you closely. In the way that you blink just a bit too much, in the way that your haughty smirk falters almost imperceptibly, Noctis can see that you’re nervous and looking for everyone’s approval. It’s a wish that will never be fulfilled. A pipe dream since it calls for everyone to suddenly care less about you. 

Ignis sips his soda. It’s a miracle he gets any of it in him, his lips are so pursed. “I believe they said they want to try their hand at being a spy. I, for one, am confused as to how you believe such a thing can be accomplished, (y/n).” You’re a bleary, almost formless thing with his ruined sight. Ignis is aware of where you are, but you bleed into the two men who flank you and the diner around you. Still, he fixes those foggy eyes on you and you can feel the heat of his judgment all the same. 

You’re on edge. Red pleather eagerly sticks to sweaty palms. Though you loathe confrontation and the daemon usually helps you through these types of things with its lighthearted commentary that only you can hear, you purposefully planned to have this conversation while it was off getting Lady Lunafreya situated in a location that even _you_ don’t know of. You’d asked the daemon if it knew of any places that Luna could hide and not encounter another person; places Ardyn might not know about. 

It seemed to have something in mind but when it went to tell you the location, you refused to hear. “Just in case.” The daemon didn’t like that. You made it seem like it was a possibility that you might be put in a situation where it would be dangerous for you to know of Luna’s whereabouts. And you will be. On a near constant basis. So, you don’t want the daemon here on purpose, for it would surely be firmly on your friends’ side and directly opposed to you, for once in its life. Especially since it’s very much aware of the danger you foresee. 

The two silent parties here are Noctis and Prompto. Prom is withholding judgment, which explains his silence even as he turns in the booth to face you. Those blue eyes watch you, unblinking. His expression is unreadable, which is a first for him. And Noctis? He’s been checked-out ever since Ignis broke the news to him that Luna had died. He barely even mumbles responses to anyone and broods all day, his failure to keep Luna safe weighing so very heavily on him. You wish he would talk. Because you need him to corroborate what you’re about to say. 

Reclining back in the booth, you confess, “I believe that I can infiltrate the Empire because of my connection to the Spire.” Something you’d shamefully been mum about since Insomnia fell. All eyes are on you. Your friends don’t understand what the Spire has to do with this until you continue, face an eerily still mask, “The Spire of Duscae has sworn fealty to the Empire and by rights I’m the Arch-Mage of that institution. This is a prime opportunity for me to gather intel.” 

It takes a moment for this to settle in. Logically, Gladiolus and Ignis knew that that might be the case with the Spire. Such an underhanded institution that made sneaky, self-serving moves even when the Iovitas were at the helm. In the back of their mind, they’d known that it would only be a matter of time before the institution decided to cut its losses without an Iovita there to keep it in check. But now you’re saying that already happened... Now you’re saying that already happened with _you_ as the Arch-Mage. 

A lot of assumptions spring up and not one of them is pretty, not one paints you in a very flattering light. All of them feature you as a liar. Because either you just found this opportunity out now, the Spire defected from Lucis recently, or the Spire allied itself with the Empire a while ago and you knew but never told them a word. Iggy and Gladio lean toward the latter. It’s an ugly assumption based on the matter-of-fact way that you present this information; like you’d mulled it over for a long, long time. 

“You _aren’t_ a spy,” Gladiolus points out, like that will somehow change your mind, undo this plot. 

“Not by trade but I know a thing or two about working people for information. The Spire is already pushing me to meet with the emperor. If I can get on his good side-” A lie. Fuck the emperor. You’re getting back on Ardyn’s “good side” and this way you can actually keep an eye on him rather than have him sneak up on you like a jump scare in a shitty horror movie. “-I might be privy to some important information. Or, at the very least, I can sneak around and see what I stumble across.” 

Prompto finally pipes up, sounding frightened, “Are you saying that you’re _leaving_?” 

You spare him a flippant glance even as your stomach takes a tumble. “Not permanently. I’m going to pretend to be a turncoat. I’m going to pretend that I value my life above all of yours and that I’m willing to sell you all out for protection. I’m going to pretend that I’m truly a Spire mage.” Soda is sipped. You don’t taste it. “Besides, the end goal is Niflheim and the Crystal. We’re all going to be there at some point. I’ll give us the opportunity to scope the place out and give us an advantage.” 

“You could get yourself killed!” Exclaims the blond. Then those cornflower blue eyes dart around the diner suspiciously, remembering where he is. Nobody is paying you all any mind. The whole world seems to be in mourning, seems to be in some sort of unfeeling stupor since it was announced that the Oracle died. 

Indignant, you coldly inform him, “I could get myself killed _every day_ on this quest and so could you. This? I’m lessening the chances of that happening. Don’t you understand?” Why is everyone giving you such a hard time? Well, you _know_ why. But for once in your life you don’t want someone to care about you. At least not so much that it hinders your ability to become who you believe you need to become in order to serve your kingdom and protect those you love. You want to be brave but no one is having it. 

They’re giving you a hard time because they care about you and they do it for their own peace of mind. Not one of them could live with themselves if they _didn’t_ harangue you over this and you wind up dead. It’s frustrating. It’s so damn frustrating because they all realize that the opportunity to have someone “on the inside” is invaluable. But why does it have to be _you_? There are Lucian spies all over so why do you have to be the one to end up with a direct connection to the emperor? 

Somehow, Noct knew that your connection to the Spire would come back to bite everyone on the ass. But never in a million years did he guess that it would come back in the form of you labeling yourself an unofficial spy because you... What? You think that’ll help everything? You think that by jeopardizing your safety everyone will benefit? Why must everything that you do come at your cost? For a guy who has his own often debilitating hero complex to combat with, he sure does resent _yours_. You’re just a couple of hardheaded heroes. 

“It sounds as though you’ve made up your mind,” observes Ignis. He sounds so bitter that you can nearly taste his acrid tone on the tip of your tongue. The brunet strategist has resorted to subtly jamming his straw through the mass of ice cubes at the bottom of his cup. The thin plastic begins to bend and get a few kinks. Ignis Scientia isn’t hiding the fact that he’s frustrated. ‘Cause this is the first time in a long time that you’re actually carrying on a conversation with everyone and it’s so you can say goodbye. 

Chin is raised, shoulders squared. At least your body is coming across as assured ‘cause you’re having one hell of an internal debate. They’re all actually making you second-guess this decision. Even Luna made you second-guess yourself, so you suppose you should’ve seen this coming. But you won’t relent. Besides, it’s not as though this goodbye is forever. Right? Your gaze alights on each and every one of them, taking in their severe expressions. You smile and admit, “I have. This discussion is merely a formality. I’ll be leaving later today.” 

And you know that probably comes across as too cold, to leave so suddenly and with no input from your friends. There’s no time to waste. The longer you squander this chance to become the emperor’s fake arcane advisor, the smaller that window of opportunity becomes. As it stands, you’re sure it’s no wider than a pinhead. Ardyn was eager enough to meet and you know that’s not because he so desperately needs you in his employ or anything of the sort. It’s more a matter or seeing you eat your own words... Or so you think. 

Eager to point out the hole in your plan so that the others can jump on it and hopefully make it wider to sink the whole thing, Gladiolus grunts, “How exactly do you think you’re gonna meet the emperor, Magey? It’s been public knowledge for a while that you’ve been traveling with His Highness. Everyone knows that your family’s loyalty to the Crown spans back for generations _and_ that you’ve been sworn to his service since birth. Ya think the guy is just gonna-” 

“I’ll meet him through Chancellor Izunia.” 

“ _What_?” That snaps Noctis out of his daze. Where once he was content to simply watch you, expression neutral though disappointed and promising some petulance in the near future, now there’s something fiery in his gaze. His hands clench into fists beneath the table. “You’re meeting with that _lunatic_?” 

“A lunatic who we should be keeping a close eye on rather than allowing to run about with reckless abandon until he collides into one of us.” When he does nothing but glower, you bitterly point out, “We can’t allow ourselves to be run by fear. Are we going to turn a blind eye to the fact that one or all of us could’ve died that day, too?” Yeah. You’re acutely aware of the phrase that you used. Fortunately, you’ll find that Iggy will use that phrase _often_ with a good-natured smirk on his face at the stunned silence of someone who doesn’t know him better. 

“What time do you leave?” Questions Prompto, sounding resigned. 

Phone is tugged out of your pocket so it can be stared at. “A hair after four at a location that I won’t disclose to you all.” Because it’s actually in Niflheim and you know for a fact that everyone will wonder how the heck you expect to get behind enemy lines in just a couple of short hours. It’s not as though you can boldly admit that you’ll be traveling via shadow-walking daemon. But at this point, you could say that _you’re_ a shadow-walking daemon and nobody would notice for all the sudden brooding. 

Silence settles over the table and permeates the diner’s already bleak atmosphere. You’re being unfair. You know that much and the “unfair mage” is a role that you’re willing to play as long as things turn out in your allies’ favor in the end. You can’t meet up with any of Lucis’ soldiers. You can’t be seen meeting up with the likes of Cor Leonis or anyone of high military rank. You’d never done it before, after all. It would be highly suspicious of you to be seen meeting with soldiers right before you go and talk business with the chancellor of Niflheim. 

Word travels fast. You know that. Especially if Ardyn is on the receiving end of that news. So, even though you know it would help your friends rest easy at night knowing that you’re going to be backed by soldiers if things go awry, you did this on purpose. The timing? It leaves no room for an official mission to be carefully drawn up for you with nice things like contingency plans to ensure that your chance of meeting a grim end is _at least_ under 70% or something like that. 

You’re blissfully unaware of exactly how this is all going to blow up. 

“I’ll communicate with you lot through my familiar,” you announce once this dead silence has gone on for too long. “They’ll bring you letters since I highly doubt I’ll be allowed access to a phone, given the imperials should have at least a _shred_ of suspicion of me and my intentions if they aren’t braindead.” 

Noct furrows his brow, blue eyes morose. “You mean... We won’t see you again until we get to Niflheim?” 

“Yeah. So make it snappy, guys. I don’t know if I’ll like the food there or not,” you joke and everyone looks like they want to smack you for making a joke right now. Yikes. Maybe they should? With a dignified cough to clear your throat of a sudden lump, you carefully drawl, “I’m not saying goodbye because this _isn’t_ goodbye. I’ll be seeing you all shortly. I can promise you that. Anyway, I need a word alone with Noctis.” 

The way you leave the diner is exactly how you leave their lives: Easily and without a glance back. You do it coldly, as if you’ve not a drop of emotion in your entire body. Really, you haven’t ever been one for goodbyes. “Goodbye” was something you never got to say to Aunt Lysa, your grandfather, or your mother. They were there one day and gone the next. And you’re the same for the guys. You’re there by their side one day, laughing and telling stories, and you’re gone the next. 

This isn’t exactly how you imagined doing all of this. The spell? The bind? Fulfilling your duty to Noctis as his ardent arcane advisor and as the Mage? Though you spent most of your time agonizing over whether or not you’d be able to practice enough before doing the bind to yourself and Noctis rather than thinking about such trivialities as the location of said spell, you can honestly say you didn’t think it’d be done behind a roadside diner after you just got done alienating your friends. 

It stinks of old grease back here, more so than in the diner itself. There’s a dumpster not five feet away behind Noctis who has his arms crossed and is currently pinning you with a steely glare. The sun is already so low in the sky, washing everything in warm orange light. Still, the atmosphere remains chilly between you and your royal charge. You suppose there’s no real use mincing words now. The only reason you’d beat around the bush would be for Noct’s comfort. Obviously, with that glare, no comfort will be had today. 

Eyes flicker down at a bit of rubbish near your boots. It’s a wrapper for a burger, stained with dried mustard and a bit of shriveled onion still there. Hands find their way nervously into your back pockets. You rock back on your heels before looking up and bluntly stating, “I want to give you temporary custody of my soul.” 

“What?” His reaction isn’t exactly immediate. Noct stands there for about a solid two seconds, just processing the bizarre thing that you told him. You’d vaguely mentioned something like this about your soul before but he didn’t think you’d _actually_ go through with it. 

Hands get shoved so far into your pockets it’s a miracle you don’t bust the seams. “I know I shouldn’t joke about this, but it feels as though a joke is necessary. What I’m proposing is me willingly handing over my soul to you for you to house it within your own body. Are you still with me?” Patronizing isn’t the angle that you’re going for, but you sure do fall into it so easily. Noct, for his part, doesn’t notice and doesn’t get offended because his head is already spinning. He can’t fathom why the _ever-loving hell_ you’d want to do something that sounds absolutely batshit crazy. 

“Yeah...” he replies at great length, arms falling out of that crossed position to rest by his sides, “I’m following you for now. Can’t follow the logic, but I’m following you.” 

Well, the least of your worries is that Noctis thinks you’re out of your mind. He could think so much worse. You allow yourself to be content with the mild judgment on his face and continue to explain yourself. “With my soul, a very _rare_ and _wonderful_ Iovita soul,” you _must_ joke or else the tension is going to kill you, “magic should come much easier to you. You’ll be as limitless as I in that capacity but only for as long as you have my soul. And Noctis? I need your consent for this.” 

Consent that he’s not exactly willing to give right now, to be perfectly honest. You can see it in his face. The way every muscle in his body tenses up and his eyes go narrow. His mouth tightens but he struggles to keep it from turning into a frown. “Is that the only way this magic works?” He wants to turn you down outright but he’s giving you the courtesy of a fair hearing. Well, “fair” considering he already has his own bias. Anything that sounds remotely like it might harm you gets an immediate “no” in Noct’s book. But you’re a hell of a salesperson. 

“No... _I_ need your consent,” is your careful response that’s delivered as quickly as molasses drips from a spoon in the dead of winter. “This can be done to you whether you want it done or not.” How ominous. How _exactly_ how you didn’t want to come across. This magic is supposed to be sold to Noct as something useful and good, not imposing and deleterious. Yet here you go sounding all authoritarian like you’re liable to rip your soul out of your body and force it upon Noct like the worst white elephant gift exchange in history. 

But Noctis is nothing if not prudent. At times, at least. Especially when he realizes that one of his friends is in distress. It’s plain for him to see that you’re desperately seeking his approval. You want to perform this spell, you clearly believe in its benefits, but he isn’t quite sold on the idea. What he really needs to know is: “What will happen to you?” 

“Nothing,” you lie immediately, right off of the damn bat. It’s your default setting but it’s not a _total_ lie, though. Nothing will really happen to you, at least not _initially_ , at least not if this goes off without a hitch. With all of those “what ifs” in mind, however, you make it your goal to be honest with Noctis. You’re going to inform him, as carefully as possible, of those grim little “what ifs.” 

“What’ll happen to me?” There go those arms, crossing again. 

As the sun’s rays bring about an increase in temperature, the dumpster begins to get smellier. That grease musk becomes truly formidable and you have to clear your throat a few times to keep your gag reflex at bay. Noct seems unaffected. Being a general slob tends to come with some perks, like a poorer sense of smell than a mage who works with subtle poisons. While you can still talk, you say, “Nothing that you can feel, either. Your life will go on, undisturbed. But there are some notable side-effects that it would be disingenuous of me not to mention.” 

“Like what? If you die, will I die or something like that?”

“No. Death is an event, Noctis. Like a story. Events lead up to it, it reaches a climax, and then,” you raise your hands and allow them to fall to your sides, “there’s a denouement. If I were to die before you, those events leading up to it as well as the climax would occur. But the denouement, the soul ascending, won’t happen. My soul will be tethered to yours and as long as you remain in this realm, so shall I... in a rather loose sense. The side-effects that I feel it necessary to mention are a bit less on the extreme side as being stuck in limbo.” 

He digests this a moment. You don’t know it, but that little bit of what you consider to be extraneous information is parceled away. It’s perhaps the only reason why he would allow you to do this to yourself. That damn scholarly mage, overlooking the bigger picture for the sake of your goal. What Noctis Lucis Caelum hears is that so long as he’s in possession of your soul, _you can’t die_. He’s right and he’s wrong. If he’d only ask you, he’d find out exactly how wrong he is. 

But he thinks he has a leg up on you, that you let some useful information slip and are too stuck with your own tunnel-vision to realize it and capitalize on it yourself. Soulless creatures _can_ die. They just can never get closure. They can be raised from the dead, can never be enthralled because they’re already technically enthralled by the one who possesses their soul, but they can most certainly die. But in hoping for some silver lining, Noctis misunderstands and unwittingly seals your fate with you. 

“Well, what are the other side-effects?” The raven-haired royal grumbles. Don’t get him wrong, he’s glad to finally be hearing about what you’ve been getting up to. But this isn’t exactly optimal. For him, the back alley dumpster setting is rather fitting. Because to Noctis, this is an absolutely garbage thing for you to do. To spring this up on him so suddenly? Right when you’re about to leave and play spy? Your timing isn’t an accident. 

His question is answered swiftly with you closing your eyes so you can recall the passage in your grimoire more clearly. “Souls are naturally drawn to the vessels that they house. When Lumis did his binding magic, he noted that he was able to find the willing participant who allowed their soul to be bound to him. It was as if he was magnetically drawn to them, like the soul cried out for them. Another side-effect, um, is that I shouldn’t maintain this spell for too long,” you admit, opening your eyes. 

“Why not? Not that I want to keep your soul forever or anything,” Noct hastily adds, as if that’s a thing anyone would actually accuse him of. 

“The longer my soul is gone, the less I’ll be... _me_. Lumis mentioned that when he was on the opposite end of the bind, namely where his soul was the one taken, his magic began to fade. The body maintains some properties of the soul when it’s gone but those properties wane after time. Which is why I _insist_ that we don’t drag our feet in this endeavor.” A wry grin is shot Noct’s way. It totally isn’t returned. You cough uncomfortably into the crook of your elbow. “Anyway, I want you safe but I’d prefer not to remain soulless for too long.” 

“So, you’re doing this for me,” Noct states flatly. It’s not a question, it’s a very unenthused and almost accusatory statement. Well, can’t say you didn’t guess he would hate to know that you’re doing this solely for his benefit. Or _soul_ -ly... Okay. 

“You’re my prince and I’m sworn to protect you. I won’t rest until I fulfill my duty and see you safely to the throne. So, yes, it’s for you.” At his stoic expression, you sigh. “ _Also_ you’re my friend. I’m doing this because I care about you. I just want you safe and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you _stay_ safe. Will you allow me to do that? It’ll be quick and painless.” Especially since you’ve practiced so damn much. But you don’t say that. 

The raven-haired royal wishes he had a century to agonize over this. He wants to be able to consider this seriously and he wants to ask you about a million more questions. But you did this on purpose. He’s not fool enough to believe that the timing is a coincidence on your part. You’ve added this time constraint to force a hasty response out of him. And maybe he’s too confident in your abilities. Maybe you both are. Because Noctis nods his head grimly and answers, “Yes.” 

Noctis expects... Well, he actually doesn’t know _what_ to expect. But he does know that he expects the spell to be more grand than it is. Like... ritual candles and a dark room and a rune drawn in chalk on the floor type of stuff. All he gets is (y/n) Iovita waltzing on up to him behind the diner and extending their hand to him. The air around you seems to vibrate, your hand looks like it pulsates. It’s almost a bizarre optical illusion that hurts his eyes to look at, making him squint and finally turn his gaze away to the cracked concrete. 

As blue eyes are downcast, you focus inward. You don’t even have to close your eyes for this, you’ve worked with souls so often. Meditation is achieved with just the evening out of your breath and the slowing down of your pulse. Dumpster musk and the back end of the diner fades away so you and Noctis are all there is. That bright warmth that each person has inside of them? You focus on yours. It burns so bright, hot in your hand as you focus that energy into your palm. It’s scalding and a part of you fears that it might burn Noctis when he touches you. 

But it doesn’t. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, having your soul enter him. In fact, when Noctis finally grabs your hand and you clasp your other hand over the top of his, it feels intimate. There’s a vulnerability there that he can’t fully describe; a warmth that washes over him and makes him feel safe. It’s a comforting sensation. And for you it’s the exact opposite. Like a bucket of ice water was dropped over your head, bucket and all. You feel it in your spine, a cold electric bolt that stiffens your joints and fills you with a sense of wrongness and loss. 

Yet you remain impassive even as a small part of you panics and says that you’ve made a terrible mistake. You force yourself to be calm. Placate yourself by being logical and pointing out that this won’t last long- you’ll see them all in a couple of weeks, max, and then you’ll undo the bind. With a satisfied smile, you release Noct’s hand. That smile doesn’t betray an ounce of discomfort, for you mainly release the brunet’s hand because his skin is feeling far too hot against your own somehow. 

“The deed is done,” you announce proudly, chest puffed out and chin raised. Oh... Your head is swimming. Breathing is deepened until the feeling goes away. Now you can smile fully. 

“What? Already?” Noct blinks in surprise. He looks down at his hand which appears normal. How long did that take? A second? Two? You gave him your soul with a _handshake_? “That... That was quick.” 

“ _Told_ you. Quick and painless,” you crow. 

How anticlimactic. Not that he was wanting something dramatic or anything! But you just seemed so severe and you’ve been working on this spell for ages. You’d hinted at it before the way a parent talks about the boogeyman- all ominous and secretive. And yet... a handshake? _Really_? Noct doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over that. He almost wants to laugh. Leave it to you to accidentally lift his spirits. But then he remembers that you’re leaving and the brunet’s mood darkens once more. “So...” 

“So?” You parrot, cocking your head to the side. That dejected expression is observed closely; dark lashes fluttering as the prince looks everywhere but in your direction. His hands find their way into the pockets of his jacket and his shoulders hunch. Though he wants to tell you to stay he knows you won’t listen. Or you _will_ listen and then he’ll have to live with knowing that he had to _order_ you to stay. In his foul mood, Noctis resents you for leaving when he feels like he needs you the most. 

“You’re gonna leave now, right?” Noct snaps. 

The edge to his tone is ignored and you check the time on your phone before murmuring, “I have about an hour and a half to spare for you, Highness.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Wicked eyes gleam. “It’s a _nickname_. Just like, soon enough, I’ll be calling you Majesty. I know I sometimes waffle between the two but I look forward to the day when I’ll be forced to stick to calling you Majesty or face execution,” you tease. 

“Shut up. You know that won’t happen.” Hook, line, and sinker. That terrible teasing has Noct all riled up. It’s almost funny how you’re able to lift his mood by being an absolutely unrepentant troll. While the guys handle him with care, they don’t realize that being a total shitlord is the way to get the prince out of a mood, if only for a little while. He’s still in mourning, after all. It’s a realization that keeps you from needling him too hard, especially since you know that you have the power to take away his pain. Yet you won’t. 

“Won’t it?” Hands rest on your hips, a defiant stance. “I feel like once you become king, you might let it go to your head a bit.” 

Noct snorts, “Yeah, right.” 

“Psh. Yeah, I’m just pulling your leg, Noct.” One hand comes up to rest on his shoulder. He leans into your touch. “ _Everyone_ knows that our greatest fear should be that you’ll be too lax a king. It’s a good thing you have Iggy and Gladio.” That teasing is accompanied by a squeeze of his shoulder just to let him know that you’re still joking around. There’s no fear of him taking it to heart. He can see the good-natured glint in your eyes. Still, he plays along, acting all bothered. 

“And you,” Noctis points out. For just one moment, the two of you are confident in the future. You allow yourselves to imagine what it would be like to have Lucis standing as a proud kingdom once more. You imagine Noctis on the throne and Noct imagines you and his friends by his side. For a moment, the two of you believe that everything will work out. It’s indulged in, this little fantasy. Neither one of you is aware of just how much work, pain, and suffering is going to be needed for it to be actualized. 

“Hm. _And_ me,” you agree. A wicked grin crawls across your face. “Prompto? Not so much. He might make you even softer even though he has that devilish streak in him. He’ll have you throwing toilet paper on an enemy’s base sooner than he’d suggest war. Not that I think Iggs, Gladio, or _I_ would make you into a war hawk. Or that I think you’d allow anyone to really dictate what you do.” 

Noct narrows his eyes at you and hums, “Uh-huh. For a second there, I thought you were admitting to wanting to be my puppet master.” 

“As if you’d let me order you around. You hardly listen to me when I tutor you as it is, anyway.” 

“I listen.” Those pale cheeks are a lovely pink. Oh, no. He’s been found out? Noctis is unaware that his inattention is the most obvious thing in the world. It’s glazed eyes and a slack jaw. You and Iggy have had words about it before. Ignis had consoled you and said that it’s not that your method of teaching is boring, it’s that Noct’s mind tends to wander. 

“Ah, yes. Glazed eyes? The surest sign of an attentive pupil.”

He blushes even harder, can feel it in his ears. “My eyes don’t get glazed during your lectures.” 

“Like donuts, Noctis. Like donuts.” 

The royal chuckles abashedly and looks away. The smile falls from his face. Beyond the diner, you can hear cars go by. It’s nothing but white noise, making you feel as though you’re alone in the world with Noctis and one very smelly dumpster. As if reading your mind, the morose prince mumbles without looking you in the eye, “Can we go somewhere else? I don’t want to spend my last hour with you next to a dumpster.” 

Those words send a jolt through you. It feeds a secret fear. But you’re always putting up a front for Noct because instead of talking to him about that vulnerability, you offer up a fake smile and laugh, “Gosh. You make it sound like I’m dying.” 

“There’s a pond nearby,” he says, still without once looking at you, still in that soft voice that sounds resigned. A warm breeze swirls through the area, rustling those dark bangs and making you draw your sweater nearer. Levity is gone. You guess it never really was here for this goodbye that you insist isn’t a goodbye. The two of you were just pretending to be your normal selves for the other’s benefit and maybe even your own benefit. Playing make-believe? At your age? What wouldn’t you do to make Noctis happy? 

“That works.” 

This is the most he’s spoken in days and he’s going to fall back into that silence as soon as you leave. His depression will grow and fester until the others tire of it. And Gladiolus in particular is lucky that you aren’t there when he finally reaches his boiling point. You’ll be far too busy facing down your own personal daemons to be overprotective and to _be there_. But Noct is lucky to have friends who care so much. He grows in your absence while you seem to wilt. 

Because even when there’s hostility you can rest assured that Noctis will be in a nurturing environment with his dear friends. It’s a comfort that will be lacking for you in Niflheim. Everyone fears that you’ll die as if that’s the worst thing that can happen to you. That fear obfuscates the litany of other wretched things that you can be subjected to that won’t immediately lead to your demise. What awaits you over the next decade? Death would be a mercy. 

For a hero complex that got out of hand from a young age, you’ll suffer dearly. That bright-eyed and mischievous mage will be nearly unrecognizable to the man who fell in love with them ten years ago. Yet you sit here today with Noctis at the edge of a murky pond, not even realizing that you’re squandering precious time because you think you’ve all the time in the world with him. You sit in silence as you wait for the daemon to come, letting so many things go unsaid, so many things that you’ll cry over as the years drag by. 

The air stinks of algae and mud but it becomes a source of melancholy and nostalgia. You’ll find yourself growing misty-eyed when you catch the scent years from now- the smell of a pond. When you close your eyes you’ll be able to hear the whir of Noct’s fishing rod, you’ll hear those frustrated huffs when a line snaps and Prompto’s jeering for the prince’s carelessness. You’ll hear Noctis ask you for another lure and when you open your eyes he won’t be there. You’ll be alone in the darkness with all of the things that you left unsaid. 

* * *

**Prompto**

Going about business as usual is almost too easy for you. Should that worry you? You aren’t too sure. What affords you adequate cover is that embarrassing outburst of yours because _nobody_ asks you anything other than how you’re doing. Are you okay? Did you sleep well? How are your hands feeling? It’s almost embarrassing. _Almost_. Secrecy is mistaken for you mourning and trying to hide your emotions to avoid another outburst. No one suspects that you raised the Oracle from the dead and had the daemon spirit her away. 

Why would anybody think you’d done something so outlandish and then kept it to yourself rather than reveal it to them all and assuage their guilt and their grief? When the truth comes out- oh, and it _always_ does- the fact that you raised Luna from the dead and didn’t tell any of them is what the guys have a hard time coming to terms with. It’s insulting. The fact that you didn’t trust them enough with that information? That you let them live their lives believing that she had died and _stayed_ dead? 

After it’s revealed, everything else unravels like a loose ball of yarn in your hands. It goes spilling out from between your fingers as you struggle to keep it all together in a perfect little ball. Because Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, once she’s discovered, will be your secret keeper no more. Not when she’s borne witness to how you’ve suffered for the sake of those secrets, how you’ve suffered for a world that largely comes to turn its back on you and look at you like a villain. She’s never been the type to abide slander, that Luna. 

But when the jig is finally up, as they say, the one left reeling the most is Prompto Argentum. Because he thought you two were kindred spirits, that you had some sort of understanding that he couldn’t find with anyone else. You confide in each other and rely on one another. But today? You prove him wrong. You make him start to question just how much he means to you. And you’ll do many more things for him to scrutinize as the years go by. And it all starts when you sit everyone down to say goodbye. 

Even when you ran it by Luna, she’d pursed her lips and told you, “Absolutely not. (y/n), I think you greatly overestimate the protections you’ll be afforded once you make it into that... inner- circle.” She’d held your hands in hers and scolded, “You’re not immortal and you are _not_ impervious to harm even if you believe the chancellor will protect you because he finds you _useful_. What if he finds that you’re no longer of any use to him? What then, (y/n)? You’ll be surrounded by the enemy without a single ally to help you.” 

“That’s not entirely true,” you’d replied curtly, turning your eyes onto the daemon who had straightened its back proudly in response. 

No one can convince you that you _don’t_ need to be close to Ardyn to try and figure out what he’s doing. You want to be there to stop future attacks or to at least inform the others so they can land a preemptive strike and avoid harm. When Ardyn had first approached you about the offer, you’d been too offended to realize what an opportunity he was presenting you with. The hen house had practically been opened nice and wide for you to trot right on in. The Empire beckoned for the wily fox. 

Still, you have to fight off nerves even as you tell yourself that this is the most sensible course of action. You’re all sat in a diner, picking at your food, when you spring this plan on all of them. The diner is mostly empty and you’re seated between Gladio and Prompto. Everyone eats in relative silence. It’s literally a day after you raised Luna from the dead. Boy, do you move fast once you’ve got a plan going. It’s almost as if you’re running on borrowed time. 

Wilted greens get pushed around your plate for a few minutes. Stomach ties itself into tight knots. Prompto strikes up a conversation with Iggy about which dog breed is the best and Gladio pipes in to make a strong case for pugs. Gods, you don’t want to spoil a conversation about dogs. But you suppose there’s really no good time to bring this up; to reveal yourself for the fibber that you are for the sake of liberating yourself and providing yourself with the opportunity to be _useful_. 

Six, the Spire sure did a number on you; wrapping up your self-worth in your utility. 

This wild idea of yours is sold to your closest allies as an infallible thing. Confidence radiates off of you even as you stab at salad. Your loyalty is unwavering and unquestionable. Logically, they all think that the only bad thing that could come of this is that you might be found out and harmed. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll blur the line between enemy and ally. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll make them question your motives. Because you? You’re a damn fine actor. Maybe too fine an actor, truth be told. 

You pretty much spent your whole life learning how to sniff out lies and how to keep _yours_ from getting sniffed. It’d never occurred to you that not everybody lived that way. Some people are far more trusting than others- certainly more trusting than _you_. These guys that you’ve befriended? They aren’t exactly easy prey for deceivers. Case in point: Their suspicion of Ardyn. It helps you to rest easy knowing that they won’t be anyone’s fool, especially not Ardyn Izunia’s even before he overplayed his hand. 

But their distrust of the redhead makes what you tell them far more difficult than need be. Ardyn revealing his malicious nature makes it that much more difficult for you to convince your friends that pretending to throw in with him is a good idea. It’s a hard sell. Convincing others that you _aren’t_ actively working against your best interests is basically a talent of yours by this point. I mean, how many times have you convinced Prompto that two hours of rest is _totally_ enough for you to run on only for you to pass out later? 

“You want to _what_?” The Shield all but growls, dark eyebrows knitted together, pugs and his burger long forgotten. It takes a bit of effort for him to refrain from cuffing the back of your head, this idea is so harebrained. 

If there’s one thing to be said about you, it’s that you move quickly. When you think that your friends might be in peril, you’re swift to act as if you have absolute impunity. It takes everyone by surprise because they’d all been working under the assumption that you’ve been depressed or, at the very least, in a very foul mood. And now you approach them with _this_ : A scheme that almost seems to spell your doom even as you hold your chin up like you own the damn world. 

How long have you been planning this, they all wonder. And the world seems to come crashing down around Prompto Argentum. This was always a fear of his that he said was baseless: That you’d leave. A sense of dread... that’s how he described it the first time the fear hit him. The sharpshooter always got the sense that even though you’re so logical and rational, you would do something that might seem impulsive or stupid; something to put yourself in harm’s way. At first, he thought it was just the coeurl thing. But the fear remained. 

When you two first met, he felt like you were already pulling away. Even when you got closer he could feel it, this strange sort of chasm between you and everyone else. The perceptive blond could feel something of the Spire’s making and he didn’t even fully know of all the strange nuances in your upbringing. Prom had blamed that fear on some “lame abandonment issues” and Noct, whom the blond had confided this in, furrowed his brow at that. And today is the day. Today you make the seemingly baseless fear a reality. 

Ignis sips his soda. It’s a miracle he gets any of it in him, his lips are so pursed. “I believe they said they want to try their hand at being a spy. I, for one, am confused as to how you believe such a thing can be accomplished, (y/n).” You’re a bleary, almost formless thing with his ruined sight. Ignis is aware of where you are, but you bleed into the two men who flank you and the diner around you. Still, he fixes those foggy eyes on you and you can feel the heat of his judgment all the same. 

You’re on edge. Red pleather eagerly sticks to sweaty palms. Though you loathe confrontation and the daemon usually helps you through these types of things with its lighthearted commentary that only you can hear, you purposefully planned to have this conversation while it was off getting Lady Lunafreya situated in a location that even _you_ don’t know of. You’d asked the daemon if it knew of any places that Luna could hide and not encounter another person; places Ardyn might not know about. 

It seemed to have something in mind but when it went to tell you the location, you refused to hear. “Just in case.” The daemon didn’t like that. You made it seem like it was a possibility that you might be put in a situation where it would be dangerous for you to know of Luna’s whereabouts. And you will be. On a near constant basis. So, you don’t want the daemon here on purpose, for it would surely be firmly on your friends’ side and directly opposed to you, for once in its life. Especially since it’s very much aware of the danger you foresee. 

The two silent parties here are Noctis and Prompto. Prom is withholding judgment, which explains his silence even as he turns in the booth to face you. Those blue eyes watch you, unblinking. His expression is unreadable, which is a first for him. And Noctis? He’s been checked-out ever since Ignis broke the news to him that Luna had died. He barely even mumbles responses to anyone and broods all day, his failure to keep Luna safe weighing so very heavily on him. You wish he would talk. Because you need him to corroborate what you’re about to say. 

Reclining back in the booth, you confess, “I believe that I can infiltrate the Empire because of my connection to the Spire.” Something you’d shamefully been mum about since Insomnia fell. All eyes are on you. Your friends don’t understand what the Spire has to do with this until you continue, face an eerily still mask, “The Spire of Duscae has sworn fealty to the Empire and by rights I’m the Arch-Mage of that institution. This is a prime opportunity for me to gather intel.” 

It takes a moment for this to settle in. Logically, Gladiolus and Ignis knew that that might be the case with the Spire. Such an underhanded institution that made sneaky, self-serving moves even when the Iovitas were at the helm. In the back of their mind, they’d known that it would only be a matter of time before the institution decided to cut its losses without an Iovita there to keep it in check. But now you’re saying that already happened... Now you’re saying that already happened with _you_ as the Arch-Mage. 

A lot of assumptions spring up and not one of them is pretty, not one paints you in a very flattering light. All of them feature you as a liar. Because either you just found this opportunity out now, the Spire defected from Lucis recently, or the Spire allied itself with the Empire a while ago and you knew but never told them a word. Iggy and Gladio lean toward the latter. It’s an ugly assumption based on the matter-of-fact way that you present this information; like you’d mulled it over for a long, long time. 

“You _aren’t_ a spy,” Gladiolus points out, like that will somehow change your mind, undo this plot. 

“Not by trade but I know a thing or two about working people for information. The Spire is already pushing me to meet with the emperor. If I can get on his good side-” A lie. Fuck the emperor. You’re getting back on Ardyn’s “good side” and this way you can actually keep an eye on him rather than have him sneak up on you like a jump scare in a shitty horror movie. “-I might be privy to some important information. Or, at the very least, I can sneak around and see what I stumble across.” 

Prompto finally pipes up, sounding frightened, “Are you saying that you’re _leaving_?” 

You spare him a flippant glance even as your stomach takes a tumble. “Not permanently. I’m going to pretend to be a turncoat. I’m going to pretend that I value my life above all of yours and that I’m willing to sell you all out for protection. I’m going to pretend that I’m truly a Spire mage.” Soda is sipped. You don’t taste it. “Besides, the end goal is Niflheim and the Crystal. We’re all going to be there at some point. I’ll give us the opportunity to scope the place out and give us an advantage.” 

“You could get yourself killed!” Exclaims the blond. Then those cornflower blue eyes dart around the diner suspiciously, remembering where he is. Nobody is paying you all any mind. The whole world seems to be in mourning, seems to be in some sort of unfeeling stupor since it was announced that the Oracle died. 

Indignant, you coldly inform him, “I could get myself killed _every day_ on this quest and so could you. This? I’m lessening the chances of that happening. Don’t you understand?” Why is everyone giving you such a hard time? Well, you _know_ why. But for once in your life you don’t want someone to care about you. At least not so much that it hinders your ability to become who you believe you need to become in order to serve your kingdom and protect those you love. You want to be brave but no one is having it. 

They’re giving you a hard time because they care about you and they do it for their own peace of mind. Not one of them could live with themselves if they _didn’t_ harangue you over this and you wind up dead. It’s frustrating. It’s so damn frustrating because they all realize that the opportunity to have someone “on the inside” is invaluable. But why does it have to be _you_? There are Lucian spies all over so why do you have to be the one to end up with a direct connection to the emperor? 

Never has Prompto ever wanted to deflate your confidence so badly. But today is a day of firsts. Oh, how the blond wants to point out to you that Gladio is exactly right and you're the _furthest thing_ from a spy. Sure, you can be sneaky and charismatic but charisma isn't _all_ it takes. You need proper training! Like... years of it! He thinks! Maybe? But his point will still stand that being a spy requires training that you don't have 'cause you're a mage. _Your_ job is to be safe so that you can counsel Noct. Prompto’s cheeks grow red by keeping this all in. 

“It sounds as though you’ve made up your mind,” observes Ignis. He sounds so bitter that you can nearly taste his acrid tone on the tip of your tongue. The brunet strategist has resorted to subtly jamming his straw through the mass of ice cubes at the bottom of his cup. The thin plastic begins to bend and get a few kinks. Ignis Scientia isn’t hiding the fact that he’s frustrated. ‘Cause this is the first time in a long time that you’re actually carrying on a conversation with everyone and it’s so you can say goodbye. 

Chin is raised, shoulders squared. At least your body is coming across as assured ‘cause you’re having one hell of an internal debate. They’re all actually making you second-guess this decision. Even Luna made you second-guess yourself, so you suppose you should’ve seen this coming. But you won’t relent. Besides, it’s not as though this goodbye is forever. Right? Your gaze alights on each and every one of them, taking in their severe expressions. You smile and admit, “I have. This discussion is merely a formality. I’ll be leaving later today.” 

And you know that probably comes across as too cold, to leave so suddenly and with no input from your friends. There’s no time to waste. The longer you squander this chance to become the emperor’s fake arcane advisor, the smaller that window of opportunity becomes. As it stands, you’re sure it’s no wider than a pinhead. Ardyn was eager enough to meet and you know that’s not because he so desperately needs you in his employ or anything of the sort. It’s more a matter or seeing you eat your own words... Or so you think. 

Eager to point out the hole in your plan so that the others can jump on it and hopefully make it wider to sink the whole thing, Gladiolus grunts, “How exactly do you think you’re gonna meet the emperor, Magey? It’s been public knowledge for a while that you’ve been traveling with His Highness. Everyone knows that your family’s loyalty to the Crown spans back for generations _and_ that you’ve been sworn to his service since birth. Ya think the guy is just gonna-” 

“I’ll meet him through Chancellor Izunia.” 

“ _What_?” That snaps Noctis out of his daze. Where once he was content to simply watch you, expression neutral though disappointed and promising some petulance in the near future, now there’s something fiery in his gaze. His hands clench into fists beneath the table. “You’re meeting with that _lunatic_?” 

“A lunatic who we should be keeping a close eye on rather than allowing to run about with reckless abandon until he collides into one of us.” When he does nothing but glower, you bitterly point out, “We can’t allow ourselves to be run by fear. Are we going to turn a blind eye to the fact that one or all of us could’ve died that day, too?” Yeah. You’re acutely aware of the phrase that you used. Fortunately, you’ll find that Iggy will use that phrase _often_ with a good-natured smirk on his face at the stunned silence of someone who doesn’t know him better. 

“What time do you leave?” Questions Prompto, sounding resigned. 

Phone is tugged out of your pocket so it can be stared at. “A hair after four at a location that I won’t disclose to you all.” Because it’s actually in Niflheim and you know for a fact that everyone will wonder how the heck you expect to get behind enemy lines in just a couple of short hours. It’s not as though you can boldly admit that you’ll be traveling via shadow-walking daemon. But at this point, you could say that _you’re_ a shadow-walking daemon and nobody would notice for all the sudden brooding. 

Silence settles over the table and permeates the diner’s already bleak atmosphere. You’re being unfair. You know that much and the “unfair mage” is a role that you’re willing to play as long as things turn out in your allies’ favor in the end. You can’t meet up with any of Lucis’ soldiers. You can’t be seen meeting up with the likes of Cor Leonis or anyone of high military rank. You’d never done it before, after all. It would be highly suspicious of you to be seen meeting with soldiers right before you go and talk business with the chancellor of Niflheim. 

Word travels fast. You know that. Especially if Ardyn is on the receiving end of that news. So, even though you know it would help your friends rest easy at night knowing that you’re going to be backed by soldiers if things go awry, you did this on purpose. The timing? It leaves no room for an official mission to be carefully drawn up for you with nice things like contingency plans to ensure that your chance of meeting a grim end is _at least_ under 70% or something like that. 

You’re blissfully unaware of exactly how this is all going to blow up. 

“I’ll communicate with you lot through my familiar,” you announce once this dead silence has gone on for too long. “They’ll bring you letters since I highly doubt I’ll be allowed access to a phone, given the imperials should have at least a _shred_ of suspicion of me and my intentions if they aren’t braindead.” 

Noct furrows his brow, blue eyes morose. “You mean... We won’t see you again until we get to Niflheim?” 

“Yeah. So make it snappy, guys. I don’t know if I’ll like the food there or not,” you joke and everyone looks like they want to smack you for making a joke right now. Yikes. Maybe they should? With a dignified cough to clear your throat of a sudden lump, you carefully drawl, “I’m not saying goodbye because this _isn’t_ goodbye. I’ll be seeing you all shortly. I can promise you that. Anyway, I need a word alone with Noctis and after, I’d like a word with you, Prompto.” 

The way you leave the diner is exactly how you leave their lives: Easily and without a glance back. You do it coldly, as if you’ve not a drop of emotion in your entire body. Really, you haven’t ever been one for goodbyes. “Goodbye” was something you never got to say to Aunt Lysa, your grandfather, or your mother. They were there one day and gone the next. And you’re the same for the guys. You’re there by their side one day, laughing and telling stories, and you’re gone the next. 

This isn’t exactly how you imagined doing all of this. The spell? The bind? Fulfilling your duty to Noctis as his ardent arcane advisor and as the Mage? Though you spent most of your time agonizing over whether or not you’d be able to practice enough before doing the bind to yourself and Noctis rather than thinking about such trivialities as the location of said spell, you can honestly say you didn’t think it’d be done behind a roadside diner after you just got done alienating your friends. 

It stinks of old grease back here, more so than in the diner itself. There’s a dumpster not five feet away behind Noctis who has his arms crossed and is currently pinning you with a steely glare. The sun is already so low in the sky, washing everything in warm orange light. Still, the atmosphere remains chilly between you and your royal charge. You suppose there’s no real use mincing words now. The only reason you’d beat around the bush would be for Noct’s comfort. Obviously, with that glare, no comfort will be had today. 

Eyes flicker down at a bit of rubbish near your boots. It’s a wrapper for a burger, stained with dried mustard and a bit of shriveled onion still there. Hands find their way nervously into your back pockets. You rock back on your heels before looking up and bluntly stating, “I want to give you temporary custody of my soul.” 

“What?” His reaction isn’t exactly immediate. Noct stands there for about a solid two seconds, just processing the bizarre thing that you told him. You’d vaguely mentioned something like this about your soul before but he didn’t think you’d _actually_ go through with it. 

Hands get shoved so far into your pockets it’s a miracle you don’t bust the seams. “I know I shouldn’t joke about this, but it feels as though a joke is necessary. What I’m proposing is me willingly handing over my soul to you for you to house it within your own body. Are you still with me?” Patronizing isn’t the angle that you’re going for, but you sure do fall into it so easily. Noct, for his part, doesn’t notice and doesn’t get offended because his head is already spinning. He can’t fathom why the _ever-loving hell_ you’d want to do something that sounds absolutely batshit crazy. 

“Yeah...” he replies at great length, arms falling out of that crossed position to rest by his sides, “I’m following you for now. Can’t follow the logic, but I’m following you.” 

Well, the least of your worries is that Noctis thinks you’re out of your mind. He could think so much worse. You allow yourself to be content with the mild judgment on his face and continue to explain yourself. “With my soul, a very _rare_ and _wonderful_ Iovita soul,” you _must_ joke or else the tension is going to kill you, “magic should come much easier to you. You’ll be as limitless as I in that capacity but only for as long as you have my soul. And Noctis? I need your consent for this.” 

Consent that he’s not exactly willing to give right now, to be perfectly honest. You can see it in his face. The way every muscle in his body tenses up and his eyes go narrow. His mouth tightens but he struggles to keep it from turning into a frown. “Is that the only way this magic works?” He wants to turn you down outright but he’s giving you the courtesy of a fair hearing. Well, “fair” considering he already has his own bias. Anything that sounds remotely like it might harm you gets an immediate “no” in Noct’s book. But you’re a hell of a salesperson. 

“No... _I_ need your consent,” is your careful response that’s delivered as quickly as molasses drips from a spoon in the dead of winter. “This can be done to you whether you want it done or not.” How ominous. How _exactly_ how you didn’t want to come across. This magic is supposed to be sold to Noct as something useful and good, not imposing and deleterious. Yet here you go sounding all authoritarian like you’re liable to rip your soul out of your body and force it upon Noct like the worst white elephant gift exchange in history. 

But Noctis is nothing if not prudent. At times, at least. Especially when he realizes that one of his friends is in distress. It’s plain for him to see that you’re desperately seeking his approval. You want to perform this spell, you clearly believe in its benefits, but he isn’t quite sold on the idea. What he really needs to know is: “What will happen to you?” 

“Nothing,” you lie immediately, right off of the damn bat. It’s your default setting but it’s not a _total_ lie, though. Nothing will really happen to you, at least not _initially_ , at least not if this goes off without a hitch. With all of those “what ifs” in mind, however, you make it your goal to be honest with Noctis. You’re going to inform him, as carefully as possible, of those grim little “what ifs.” 

“What’ll happen to me?” There go those arms, crossing again. 

As the sun’s rays bring about an increase in temperature, the dumpster begins to get smellier. That grease musk becomes truly formidable and you have to clear your throat a few times to keep your gag reflex at bay. Noct seems unaffected. Being a general slob tends to come with some perks, like a poorer sense of smell than a mage who works with subtle poisons. While you can still talk, you say, “Nothing that you can feel, either. Your life will go on, undisturbed. But there are some notable side-effects that it would be disingenuous of me not to mention.” 

“Like what? If you die, will I die or something like that?” 

“No. Death is an event, Noctis. Like a story. Events lead up to it, it reaches a climax, and then,” you raise your hands and allow them to fall to your sides, “there’s a denouement. If I were to die before you, those events leading up to it as well as the climax would occur. But the denouement, the soul ascending, won’t happen. My soul will be tethered to yours and as long as you remain in this realm, so shall I... in a rather loose sense. The side-effects that I feel it necessary to mention are a bit less on the extreme side as being stuck in limbo.” 

He digests this a moment. You don’t know it, but that little bit of what you consider to be extraneous information is parceled away. It’s perhaps the only reason why he would allow you to do this to yourself. That damn scholarly mage, overlooking the bigger picture for the sake of your goal. What Noctis Lucis Caelum hears is that so long as he’s in possession of your soul, _you can’t die_. He’s right and he’s wrong. If he’d only ask you, he’d find out exactly how wrong he is. 

But he thinks he has a leg up on you, that you let some useful information slip and are too stuck with your own tunnel-vision to realize it and capitalize on it yourself. Soulless creatures _can_ die. They just can never get closure. They can be raised from the dead, can never be enthralled because they’re already technically enthralled by the one who possesses their soul, but they can most certainly die. But in hoping for some silver lining, Noctis misunderstands and unwittingly seals your fate with you. 

“Well, what are the other side-effects?” The raven-haired royal grumbles. Don’t get him wrong, he’s glad to finally be hearing about what you’ve been getting up to. But this isn’t exactly optimal. For him, the back alley dumpster setting is rather fitting. Because to Noctis, this is an absolutely garbage thing for you to do. To spring this up on him so suddenly? Right when you’re about to leave and play spy? Your timing isn’t an accident. 

His question is answered swiftly with you closing your eyes so you can recall the passage in your grimoire more clearly. “Souls are naturally drawn to the vessels that they house. When Lumis did his binding magic, he noted that he was able to find the willing participant who allowed their soul to be bound to him. It was as if he was magnetically drawn to them, like the soul cried out for them. Another side-effect, um, is that I shouldn’t maintain this spell for too long,” you admit, opening your eyes. 

“Why not? Not that I want to keep your soul forever or anything,” Noct hastily adds, as if that’s a thing anyone would actually accuse him of. 

“The longer my soul is gone, the less I’ll be... _me_. Lumis mentioned that when he was on the opposite end of the bind, namely where his soul was the one taken, his magic began to fade. The body maintains some properties of the soul when it’s gone but those properties wane after time. Which is why I _insist_ that we don’t drag our feet in this endeavor.” A wry grin is shot Noct’s way. It totally isn’t returned. You cough uncomfortably into the crook of your elbow. “Anyway, I want you safe but I’d prefer not to remain soulless for too long.” 

“So, you’re doing this for me,” Noct states flatly. It’s not a question, it’s a very unenthused and almost accusatory statement. Well, can’t say you didn’t guess he would hate to know that you’re doing this solely for his benefit. Or _soul_ -ly... Okay. 

“You’re my prince and I’m sworn to protect you. I won’t rest until I fulfill my duty and see you safely to the throne. So, yes, it’s for you.” At his stoic expression, you sigh. “ _Also_ you’re my friend. I’m doing this because I care about you. I just want you safe and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you _stay_ safe. Will you allow me to do that? It’ll be quick and painless.” Especially since you’ve practiced so damn much. But you don’t say that. 

The raven-haired royal wishes he had a century to agonize over this. He wants to be able to consider this seriously and he wants to ask you about a million more questions. But you did this on purpose. He’s not fool enough to believe that the timing is a coincidence on your part. You’ve added this time constraint to force a hasty response out of him. And maybe he’s too confident in your abilities. Maybe you both are. Because Noctis nods his head grimly and answers, “Yes.” 

Noctis expects... Well, he actually doesn’t know _what_ to expect. But he does know that he expects the spell to be more grand than it is. Like... ritual candles and a dark room and a rune drawn in chalk on the floor type of stuff. All he gets is (y/n) Iovita waltzing on up to him behind the diner and extending their hand to him. The air around you seems to vibrate, your hand looks like it pulsates. It’s almost a bizarre optical illusion that hurts his eyes to look at, making him squint and finally turn his gaze away to the cracked concrete. 

As blue eyes are downcast, you focus inward. You don’t even have to close your eyes for this, you’ve worked with souls so often. Meditation is achieved with just the evening out of your breath and the slowing down of your pulse. Dumpster musk and the back end of the diner fades away so you and Noctis are all there is. That bright warmth that each person has inside of them? You focus on yours. It burns so bright, hot in your hand as you focus that energy into your palm. It’s scalding and a part of you fears that it might burn Noctis when he touches you. 

But it doesn’t. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, having your soul enter him. In fact, when Noctis finally grabs your hand and you clasp your other hand over the top of his, it feels intimate. There’s a vulnerability there that he can’t fully describe; a warmth that washes over him and makes him feel safe. It’s a comforting sensation. And for you it’s the exact opposite. Like a bucket of ice water was dropped over your head, bucket and all. You feel it in your spine, a cold electric bolt that stiffens your joints and fills you with a sense of wrongness and loss. 

Yet you remain impassive even as a small part of you panics and says that you’ve made a terrible mistake. You force yourself to be calm. Placate yourself by being logical and pointing out that this won’t last long- you’ll see them all in a couple of weeks, max, and then you’ll undo the bind. With a satisfied smile, you release Noct’s hand. That smile doesn’t betray an ounce of discomfort, for you mainly release the brunet’s hand because his skin is feeling far too hot against your own somehow. 

“The deed is done,” you announce proudly, chest puffed out and chin raised. Oh... Your head is swimming. Breathing is deepened until the feeling goes away. Now you can smile fully. 

“What? Already?” Noct blinks in surprise. He looks down at his hand which appears normal. How long did that take? A second? Two? You gave him your soul with a _handshake_? “That... That was quick.” 

“ _Told_ you. Quick and painless,” you crow. 

How anticlimactic. Not that he was wanting something dramatic or anything! But you just seemed so severe and you’ve been working on this spell for ages. You’d hinted at it before the way a parent talks about the boogeyman- all ominous and secretive. And yet... a handshake? _Really_? Noct doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over that. He almost wants to laugh. Leave it to you to accidentally lift his spirits. But then he remembers that you’re leaving and the brunet’s mood darkens once more. “So... I guess you wanna talk to Prompto now before you leave.” 

“That’s correct.” That dejected expression is observed closely; dark lashes fluttering as the prince looks everywhere but in your direction. His hands find their way into the pockets of his jacket and his shoulders hunch. Though he wants to tell you to stay he knows you won’t listen. Or you _will_ listen and then he’ll have to live with knowing that he had to _order_ you to stay. In his foul mood, Noctis resents you for leaving when he feels like he needs your friendly support the most. 

“I’ll see you later.” He’s trying to be optimistic for your sake. He doesn’t want to say that, with the way things go in this world, he thinks it’s highly unlikely that you’ll be seeing each other again. He’s wrong. You _will_ see each other. It’ll just be far later than either one of you thinks. 

“That you will. It’s not gonna be so easy to get rid of me, Noct.” 

The faintest smile is offered to you as the prince turns away. “Bye, (y/n).” 

You take a moment, no longer having to wear a mask with his back to you. In his shadow, you feel hollow. As he walks away, he takes the biggest piece of you and you can feel it. Lumis, the bastard, never said anything about it feeling like this. Noct turns the corner and you remember yourself long enough to whisper, “Bye.” 

How much time do you waste behind the diner before Prompto comes looking for you? Too much. An unfair amount. But you’ve already established that today is your day for being _unfair_ ; for springing plots on your friends under the guise of getting input that you never had any intention of heeding. How very like your ancestors to make a self-sacrificing move for the King while the man who loves you sat right next to you and was forced to just _listen_. 

And Prompto always knew that he would play second fiddle to your duty to Noctis and the kingdom. He’d always known that. You’re the arcane advisor, the Arch-Mage, and the Mage all wrapped up into one dazzling package. He’d read all about the duty that you would inherit yet it still stung to have you sitting pretty in that booth and talking like the two of you hadn’t slowly been building something together. Because was _he_ ever asked about his thoughts on your dangerous mission before you took it to the others? No. Never. 

Did it hurt to have Ignis and Gladiolus practically pounce on him the second you left the diner with Noct? Asking him how long he knew about your plan? Both of them under the impression that he’d been told? Yes. Like a bitch. Because it was something you _should’ve_ talked to him about and yet you didn’t. He was just as shocked as the others- others who aren’t nearly as close to you as Prompto Argentum is. In one awkward lunch you signed your death wish and shoved Prompto away. 

When he finds you behind the diner where Noct mumbled that he left you, Prom doesn’t immediately call for your attention. He just watches you. He burns the sight of you into his memory. Somehow, you look so small, holding yourself with your arms so tight to your body. Your head tilts down to the ground like a wilting flower and you sway in the wind as if you really are one. Tired. Rundown. That’s how you look. Not fit to go out with your liar’s face on and pretend to be Lucis’ enemy. 

Prompto wants to hold you but he’s also too angry; the feeling is hot in his gut and it twists his intestines. It startles him to realize that. He’s only ever been this angry with you once before and it was when you’d laughed about how you’d died. Even then he could see the fear in your eyes- the fear that you could’ve stayed that way if it weren’t for Gladiolus. Even now he can see the fear in your form though you have your back to him. Prompto approaches you slowly and you still don’t hear or notice him. 

“You said you wanted to talk but you didn’t come back into the diner, so...” That low voice from behind you makes you startle and whirl around. There stands Prompto Argentum, looking ill and infuriated in equal measure. It’s a bizarre mix of emotion on the blond’s face, making his expression all twisted and pained. Foreign, is what it is. Not that you’ve never seen anyone wear fury and direct it toward you. No, you’ve seen _that_ several times. But it looks out of practice on the face of someone so kind. Someone you hurt. 

“Prompto.” It’s all you can actually say. Funny how you’d asked to speak with him yet had no idea of what you’d say to him. Will you apologize? It feels too late for that. Offer up reassurances? He doesn’t look open to that. Those cornflower blue eyes that are usually shining and wide are now hooded and dark. Freckled arms don’t cross, remaining by his sides- ever conscientious of how sensitive you are to body language. Even when he’s angry, he puts you and your well-being above his own. 

“So,” murmurs Prom, the corners of his mouth try to tick up into a smile, “you’re crossing over to the dark side?” 

“I’m _pretending_ to,” you snap defensively.

Pale eyebrows knit together and he looks away. “Yeah. I was, uh, trying to make a joke ‘cause I don’t want you to go.” 

The silence between you two yawns on. It’s shame that keeps you from being your joking self. The fact that you wronged Prompto on this front isn’t something that you don’t realize. Oh, you realize it fully. But it’s a misguided sense of what you believe will protect everyone, namely the insulating nature of your secrets, that has you making the same mistakes over and over again. By withholding vital information that could land them directly in Ardyn’s crosshairs, you think you’re protecting your friends. That’s not how it’ll work out, of course. 

“I’ll be fine.” 

“You don’t know that, (y/n). You _can’t_ know that.” Prompto shakes his head in frustration. The distance between the two of you is crossed so he can grab your shoulders. The instinct to shake you, try and shake some damn sense into you, is fought off. His chest heaves, cheeks grow pink, but he keeps his voice level because he knows he’ll regret it as soon as he yells. “I’ve never had a lot of people that I care about. Before Noct, I mean... And now there’s you and I _can’t_ lose you.” 

“Listen, sweetheart,” you bring your hand up to put it over one of his, “if I can play some minor role in making sure that you’re all safe, I’ll do it. I’d do anything.” 

And you would. And you do. But you’ve no idea how you’ll fail him on that front. Because even when you’re up to your knees in imperial affairs, breathing down Ardyn’s neck, Prompto still suffers. Captured and tortured and you’re none the wiser, left thinking that you’re still succeeding in protecting him until it’s too late for you to do anything. And Ardyn smiles at you when your voice trembles and lightning streaks across the sky just as tears streak down your face. He chuckles at your futile attempts at policing his behavior. 

“I told you I would do as I pleased, mageling,” he’ll simper and you’ll get the distinct feeling that everything he did to Prompto, he did not only with Noctis in mind but with _you_ in mind as well. It’s all in those golden eyes that burn you right down to the marrow in your bones. And it makes you so bitter. It makes you feel so useless that in your shame you don’t even go to comfort the blond. You fail Prompto again. But not once does Prompto Argentum hold that against you. Not once. 

When he sees you off today- watches you cross over to the dark side, as he so unenthusiastically joked- he doesn’t realize that it’s the last time that he’s going to really, _truly_ be with you for years. You promised that it wouldn’t be long. You promised that it would be a couple, maybe a few weeks. But like you’d told him what feels like a lifetime ago when he went to ride your scooter with you for the first time, sometimes people make promises that they don’t intend on keeping. 

* * *

**Ignis**

Going about business as usual is almost too easy for you. Should that worry you? You aren’t too sure. What affords you adequate cover is that embarrassing outburst of yours because _nobody_ asks you anything other than how you’re doing. Are you okay? Did you sleep well? How are your hands feeling? It’s almost embarrassing. _Almost_. Secrecy is mistaken for you mourning and trying to hide your emotions to avoid another outburst. No one suspects that you raised the Oracle from the dead and had the daemon spirit her away. 

Why would anybody think you’d done something so outlandish and then kept it to yourself rather than reveal it to them all and assuage their guilt and their grief? When the truth comes out- oh, and it _always_ does- the fact that you raised Luna from the dead and didn’t tell any of them is what the guys have a hard time coming to terms with. It’s insulting. The fact that you didn’t trust them enough with that information? That you let them live their lives believing that she had died and _stayed_ dead? 

After it’s revealed, everything else unravels like a loose ball of yarn in your hands. It goes spilling out from between your fingers as you struggle to keep it all together in a perfect little ball. Because Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, once she’s discovered, will be your secret keeper no more. Not when she’s borne witness to how you’ve suffered for the sake of those secrets, how you’ve suffered for a world that largely comes to turn its back on you and look at you like a villain. She’s never been the type to abide slander, that Luna. 

But when the jig is finally up, as they say, the one left reeling the most is Ignis Scientia. And it’s mostly because he had grown to become just like all those other people in the world who turned their back on you. He only turns away from you because he thinks you turn first. What would make him think such a ludicrous thing of the devoted mage? Well, you start him off down that journey _today_ when you sit everyone down and tell them your devious little plan that seemingly everyone but you can see spells your doom. You sit them down to say goodbye. 

Even when you ran it by Luna, she’d pursed her lips and told you, “Absolutely not. (y/n), I think you greatly overestimate the protections you’ll be afforded once you make it into that... inner- circle.” She’d held your hands in hers and scolded, “You’re not immortal and you are _not_ impervious to harm even if you believe the chancellor will protect you because he finds you _useful_. What if he finds that you’re no longer of any use to him? What then, (y/n)? You’ll be surrounded by the enemy without a single ally to help you.” 

“That’s not entirely true,” you’d replied curtly, turning your eyes onto the daemon who had straightened its back proudly in response. 

No one can convince you that you _don’t_ need to be close to Ardyn to try and figure out what he’s doing. You want to be there to stop future attacks or to at least inform the others so they can land a preemptive strike and avoid harm. When Ardyn had first approached you about the offer, you’d been too offended to realize what an opportunity he was presenting you with. The hen house had practically been opened nice and wide for you to trot right on in. The Empire beckoned for the wily fox. 

Still, you have to fight off nerves even as you tell yourself that this is the most sensible course of action. You’re all sat in a diner, picking at your food, when you spring this plan on all of them. The diner is mostly empty and you’re seated between Gladio and Prompto. Everyone eats in relative silence. It’s literally a day after you raised Luna from the dead. Boy, do you move fast once you’ve got a plan going. It’s almost as if you’re running on borrowed time. 

Wilted greens get pushed around your plate for a few minutes. Stomach ties itself into tight knots. Prompto strikes up a conversation with Iggy about which dog breed is the best and Gladio pipes in to make a strong case for pugs. Gods, you don’t want to spoil a conversation about dogs. But you suppose there’s really no good time to bring this up; to reveal yourself for the fibber that you are for the sake of liberating yourself and providing yourself with the opportunity to be _useful_. 

Six, the Spire sure did a number on you; wrapping up your self-worth in your utility. 

This wild idea of yours is sold to your closest allies as an infallible thing. Confidence radiates off of you even as you stab at salad. Your loyalty is unwavering and unquestionable. Logically, they all think that the only bad thing that could come of this is that you might be found out and harmed. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll blur the line between enemy and ally. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll make them question your motives. Because you? You’re a damn fine actor. Maybe too fine an actor, truth be told. 

You pretty much spent your whole life learning how to sniff out lies and how to keep _yours_ from getting sniffed. It’d never occurred to you that not everybody lived that way. Some people are far more trusting than others- certainly more trusting than _you_. These guys that you’ve befriended? They aren’t exactly easy prey for deceivers. Case in point: Their suspicion of Ardyn. It helps you to rest easy knowing that they won’t be anyone’s fool, especially not Ardyn Izunia’s even before he overplayed his hand. 

But their distrust of the redhead makes what you tell them far more difficult than need be. Ardyn revealing his malicious nature makes it that much more difficult for you to convince your friends that pretending to throw in with him is a good idea. It’s a hard sell. Convincing others that you _aren’t_ actively working against your best interests is basically a talent of yours by this point. I mean, how many times have you convinced Iggy that putting an entire candy dish’s contents in your ice cream wasn’t bad for you? Checkmate. 

“You want to _what_?” The Shield all but growls, dark eyebrows knitted together, pugs and his burger long forgotten. It takes a bit of effort for him to refrain from cuffing the back of your head, this idea is so harebrained. 

If there’s one thing to be said about you, it’s that you move quickly. When you think that your friends might be in peril, you’re swift to act as if you have absolute impunity. It takes everyone by surprise because they’d all been working under the assumption that you’ve been depressed or, at the very least, in a very foul mood. And now you approach them with _this_ : A scheme that almost seems to spell your doom even as you hold your chin up like you own the damn world. 

How long have you been planning this, they all wonder. Ignis is quietly simmering. He’d noticed that you’ve been distant as of late and he kicks himself for allowing himself to believe that you were simply in mourning. It was all too convenient, wasn’t it? Though you may be a brooder to the n th  degree, there’s one thing that Ignis knows to be true about you: You cannot _stand_ isolation. It makes you a mumbling chatterbox at times, going on about arcane matters to anyone who will listen, but you crave human interaction. 

This past _week_? In the wake of Leviathan’s trial, you’ve removed yourself from everyone. Yes, you kept him quiet company but Ignis knew, deep down, if everything indeed _was_ okay with you then you would’ve been more vocal. Though he knows you’re plagued with guilt by his injury because you’d let as much slip out, you’ve been giving him signs that something else has been amiss. But, of course, when it comes to you Ignis has always had a blind spot even before he lost his sight. 

Ignis had been bandaged when you first saw him after everything settled down, the full extent of the damage done to his eyes not yet known. He hadn’t been optimistic, far more grounded in the realm of reality than you, and in the end you suppose that was for the best. Now, however, though he still isn’t foolishly optimistic there’s a determination in him that burns brilliantly. He won’t allow himself to be hindered by his injury. And though you should be of the same mindset, he doesn’t push you to snap back from this like he has. 

He knows that this has been hard for you. He's heard you crying some nights when he walks by your room. When he knocks on your door, you go quiet and don't answer. The world has been shut out and he thought he knew why. You’ve held his hand too long most days. There’s been a desperation in your touch. The strategist thought it was just your guilt about Lady Lunafreya and his blindness but... well... now he knows better. 

Ignis sips his soda. It’s a miracle he gets any of it in him, his lips are so pursed. “I believe they said they want to try their hand at being a spy. I, for one, am confused as to how you believe such a thing can be accomplished, (y/n).” You’re a bleary, almost formless thing with his ruined sight. Ignis is aware of where you are, but you bleed into the two men who flank you and the diner around you. Still, he fixes those foggy eyes on you and you can feel the heat of his judgment all the same. 

You’re on edge. Red pleather eagerly sticks to sweaty palms. Though you loathe confrontation and the daemon usually helps you through these types of things with its lighthearted commentary that only you can hear, you purposefully planned to have this conversation while it was off getting Lady Lunafreya situated in a location that even _you_ don’t know of. You’d asked the daemon if it knew of any places that Luna could hide and not encounter another person; places Ardyn might not know about. 

It seemed to have something in mind but when it went to tell you the location, you refused to hear. “Just in case.” The daemon didn’t like that. You made it seem like it was a possibility that you might be put in a situation where it would be dangerous for you to know of Luna’s whereabouts. 

And you will be. On a near constant basis. So, you don’t want the daemon here on purpose, for it would surely be firmly on your friends’ side and directly opposed to you, for once in its life. Especially since it’s very much aware of the danger you foresee. 

The two silent parties here are Noctis and Prompto. Prom is withholding judgment, which explains his silence even as he turns in the booth to face you. Those blue eyes watch you, unblinking. His expression is unreadable, which is a first for him. And Noctis? He’s been checked-out ever since Ignis broke the news to him that Luna had died. He barely even mumbles responses to anyone and broods all day, his failure to keep Luna safe weighing so very heavily on him. You wish he would talk. Because you need him to corroborate what you’re about to say. 

Reclining back in the booth, you confess, “I believe that I can infiltrate the Empire because of my connection to the Spire.” Something you’d shamefully been mum about since Insomnia fell. All eyes are on you. Your friends don’t understand what the Spire has to do with this until you continue, face an eerily still mask, “The Spire of Duscae has sworn fealty to the Empire and by rights I’m the Arch-Mage of that institution. This is a prime opportunity for me to gather intel.” 

It takes a moment for this to settle in. Logically, Gladiolus and Ignis knew that that might be the case with the Spire. Such an underhanded institution that made sneaky, self-serving moves even when the Iovitas were at the helm. In the back of their mind, they’d known that it would only be a matter of time before the institution decided to cut its losses without an Iovita there to keep it in check. But now you’re saying that already happened... Now you’re saying that already happened with _you_ as the Arch-Mage. 

A lot of assumptions spring up and not one of them is pretty, not one paints you in a very flattering light. All of them feature you as a liar. Because either you just found this opportunity out now, the Spire defected from Lucis recently, or the Spire allied itself with the Empire a while ago and you knew but never told them a word. Iggy and Gladio lean toward the latter. It’s an ugly assumption based on the matter-of-fact way that you present this information; like you’d mulled it over for a long, long time. 

For the first time in his life, Ignis doesn’t want to be right. 

“You _aren’t_ a spy,” Gladiolus points out, like that will somehow change your mind, undo this plot. 

“Not by trade but I know a thing or two about working people for information. The Spire is already pushing me to meet with the emperor. If I can get on his good side-” A lie. Fuck the emperor. You’re getting back on Ardyn’s “good side” and this way you can actually keep an eye on him rather than have him sneak up on you like a jump scare in a shitty horror movie. “-I might be privy to some important information. Or, at the very least, I can sneak around and see what I stumble across.” 

Prompto finally pipes up, sounding frightened, “Are you saying that you’re _leaving_?” 

You spare him a flippant glance even as your stomach takes a tumble. “Not permanently. I’m going to pretend to be a turncoat. I’m going to pretend that I value my life above all of yours and that I’m willing to sell you all out for protection. I’m going to pretend that I’m truly a Spire mage.” Soda is sipped. You don’t taste it. “Besides, the end goal is Niflheim and the Crystal. We’re all going to be there at some point. I’ll give us the opportunity to scope the place out and give us an advantage.” 

“You could get yourself killed!” Exclaims the blond. Then those cornflower blue eyes dart around the diner suspiciously, remembering where he is. Nobody is paying you all any mind. The whole world seems to be in mourning, seems to be in some sort of unfeeling stupor since it was announced that the Oracle died. 

Indignant, you coldly inform him, “I could get myself killed _every day_ on this quest and so could you. This? I’m lessening the chances of that happening. Don’t you understand?” Why is everyone giving you such a hard time? Well, you _know_ why. But for once in your life you don’t want someone to care about you. At least not so much that it hinders your ability to become who you believe you need to become in order to serve your kingdom and protect those you love. You want to be brave but no one is having it. 

They’re giving you a hard time because they care about you and they do it for their own peace of mind. Not one of them could live with themselves if they _didn’t_ harangue you over this and you wind up dead. It’s frustrating. It’s so damn frustrating because they all realize that the opportunity to have someone “on the inside” is invaluable. But why does it have to be _you_? There are Lucian spies all over so why do you have to be the one to end up with a direct connection to the emperor? 

Ignis doesn’t even feel _bad_ for wanting it to be someone other than the person he loves to risk their life as a damn spy. Because actual Lucian spies know what they signed up for- they know the risks and pursue that occupation regardless. But you? You’re a _mage_. You’re not a damn spy even if you have a convenient way to infiltrate the Empire. You haven’t even been properly trained. Oh, he’s gonna have a damn stroke when he finds out exactly _how_ you plan on getting in. 

“It sounds as though you’ve made up your mind,” observes Ignis. He sounds so bitter that you can nearly taste his acrid tone on the tip of your tongue. The brunet strategist has resorted to subtly jamming his straw through the mass of ice cubes at the bottom of his cup. The thin plastic begins to bend and get a few kinks. Ignis Scientia isn’t hiding the fact that he’s frustrated. ‘Cause this is the first time in a long time that you’re actually carrying on a conversation with everyone and it’s so you can say goodbye. 

Chin is raised, shoulders squared. At least your body is coming across as assured ‘cause you’re having one hell of an internal debate. They’re all actually making you second-guess this decision. Even Luna made you second-guess yourself, so you suppose you should’ve seen this coming. But you won’t relent. Besides, it’s not as though this goodbye is forever. Right? Your gaze alights on each and every one of them, taking in their severe expressions. You smile and admit, “I have. This discussion is merely a formality. I’ll be leaving later today.” 

And you know that probably comes across as too cold, to leave so suddenly and with no input from your friends. There’s no time to waste. The longer you squander this chance to become the emperor’s fake arcane advisor, the smaller that window of opportunity becomes. As it stands, you’re sure it’s no wider than a pinhead. Ardyn was eager enough to meet and you know that’s not because he so desperately needs you in his employ or anything of the sort. It’s more a matter or seeing you eat your own words... Or so you think. 

Eager to point out the hole in your plan so that the others can jump on it and hopefully make it wider to sink the whole thing, Gladiolus grunts, “How exactly do you think you’re gonna meet the emperor, Magey? It’s been public knowledge for a while that you’ve been traveling with His Highness. Everyone knows that your family’s loyalty to the Crown spans back for generations _and_ that you’ve been sworn to his service since birth. Ya think the guy is just gonna-” 

“I’ll meet him through Chancellor Izunia.” 

“ _What_?” That snaps Noctis out of his daze. Where once he was content to simply watch you, expression neutral though disappointed and promising some petulance in the near future, now there’s something fiery in his gaze. His hands clench into fists beneath the table. “You’re meeting with that _lunatic_?” 

“A lunatic who we should be keeping a close eye on rather than allowing to run about with reckless abandon until he collides into one of us.” When he does nothing but glower, you bitterly point out, “We can’t allow ourselves to be run by fear. Are we going to turn a blind eye to the fact that one or all of us could’ve died that day, too?” Yeah. You’re acutely aware of the phrase that you used. Fortunately, you’ll find that Iggy will use that phrase _often_ with a good-natured smirk on his face at the stunned silence of someone who doesn’t know him better. 

“What time do you leave?” Questions Prompto, sounding resigned. 

Phone is tugged out of your pocket so it can be stared at. “A hair after four at a location that I won’t disclose to you all.” Because it’s actually in Niflheim and you know for a fact that everyone will wonder how the heck you expect to get behind enemy lines in just a couple of short hours. It’s not as though you can boldly admit that you’ll be traveling via shadow-walking daemon. But at this point, you could say that _you’re_ a shadow-walking daemon and nobody would notice for all the sudden brooding. 

Silence settles over the table and permeates the diner’s already bleak atmosphere. You’re being unfair. You know that much and the “unfair mage” is a role that you’re willing to play as long as things turn out in your allies’ favor in the end. You can’t meet up with any of Lucis’ soldiers. You can’t be seen meeting up with the likes of Cor Leonis or anyone of high military rank. You’d never done it before, after all. It would be highly suspicious of you to be seen meeting with soldiers right before you go and talk business with the chancellor of Niflheim. 

Word travels fast. You know that. Especially if Ardyn is on the receiving end of that news. So, even though you know it would help your friends rest easy at night knowing that you’re going to be backed by soldiers if things go awry, you did this on purpose. The timing? It leaves no room for an official mission to be carefully drawn up for you with nice things like contingency plans to ensure that your chance of meeting a grim end is _at least_ under 70% or something like that. 

You’re blissfully unaware of exactly how this is all going to blow up. 

“I’ll communicate with you lot through my familiar,” you announce once this dead silence has gone on for too long. “They’ll bring you letters since I highly doubt I’ll be allowed access to a phone, given the imperials should have at least a _shred_ of suspicion of me and my intentions if they aren’t braindead.” 

Noct furrows his brow, blue eyes morose. “You mean... We won’t see you again until we get to Niflheim?” 

“Yeah. So make it snappy, guys. I don’t know if I’ll like the food there or not,” you joke and everyone looks like they want to smack you for making a joke right now. Yikes. Maybe they should? With a dignified cough to clear your throat of a sudden lump, you carefully drawl, “I’m not saying goodbye because this _isn’t_ goodbye. I’ll be seeing you all shortly. I can promise you that. Anyway, I need a word alone with Noctis and after, I’d like a word with you, Ignis.” 

The way you leave the diner is exactly how you leave their lives: Easily and without a glance back. You do it coldly, as if you’ve not a drop of emotion in your entire body. Really, you haven’t ever been one for goodbyes. “Goodbye” was something you never got to say to Aunt Lysa, your grandfather, or your mother. They were there one day and gone the next. And you’re the same for the guys. You’re there by their side one day, laughing and telling stories, and you’re gone the next. 

This isn’t exactly how you imagined doing all of this. The spell? The bind? Fulfilling your duty to Noctis as his ardent arcane advisor and as the Mage? Though you spent most of your time agonizing over whether or not you’d be able to practice enough before doing the bind to yourself and Noctis rather than thinking about such trivialities as the location of said spell, you can honestly say you didn’t think it’d be done behind a roadside diner after you just got done alienating your friends. 

It stinks of old grease back here, more so than in the diner itself. There’s a dumpster not five feet away behind Noctis who has his arms crossed and is currently pinning you with a steely glare. The sun is already so low in the sky, washing everything in warm orange light. Still, the atmosphere remains chilly between you and your royal charge. You suppose there’s no real use mincing words now. The only reason you’d beat around the bush would be for Noct’s comfort. Obviously, with that glare, no comfort will be had today. 

Eyes flicker down at a bit of rubbish near your boots. It’s a wrapper for a burger, stained with dried mustard and a bit of shriveled onion still there. Hands find their way nervously into your back pockets. You rock back on your heels before looking up and bluntly stating, “I want to give you temporary custody of my soul.” 

“What?” His reaction isn’t exactly immediate. Noct stands there for about a solid two seconds, just processing the bizarre thing that you told him. You’d vaguely mentioned something like this about your soul before but he didn’t think you’d _actually_ go through with it. 

Hands get shoved so far into your pockets it’s a miracle you don’t bust the seams. “I know I shouldn’t joke about this, but it feels as though a joke is necessary. What I’m proposing is me willingly handing over my soul to you for you to house it within your own body. Are you still with me?” Patronizing isn’t the angle that you’re going for, but you sure do fall into it so easily. Noct, for his part, doesn’t notice and doesn’t get offended because his head is already spinning. He can’t fathom why the _ever-loving hell_ you’d want to do something that sounds absolutely batshit crazy. 

“Yeah...” he replies at great length, arms falling out of that crossed position to rest by his sides, “I’m following you for now. Can’t follow the logic, but I’m following you.” 

Well, the least of your worries is that Noctis thinks you’re out of your mind. He could think so much worse. You allow yourself to be content with the mild judgment on his face and continue to explain yourself. “With my soul, a very _rare_ and _wonderful_ Iovita soul,” you _must_ joke or else the tension is going to kill you, “magic should come much easier to you. You’ll be as limitless as I in that capacity but only for as long as you have my soul. And Noctis? I need your consent for this.” 

Consent that he’s not exactly willing to give right now, to be perfectly honest. You can see it in his face. The way every muscle in his body tenses up and his eyes go narrow. His mouth tightens but he struggles to keep it from turning into a frown. “Is that the only way this magic works?” He wants to turn you down outright but he’s giving you the courtesy of a fair hearing. Well, “fair” considering he already has his own bias. Anything that sounds remotely like it might harm you gets an immediate “no” in Noct’s book. But you’re a hell of a salesperson. 

“No... _I_ need your consent,” is your careful response that’s delivered as quickly as molasses drips from a spoon in the dead of winter. “This can be done to you whether you want it done or not.” How ominous. How _exactly_ how you didn’t want to come across. This magic is supposed to be sold to Noct as something useful and good, not imposing and deleterious. Yet here you go sounding all authoritarian like you’re liable to rip your soul out of your body and force it upon Noct like the worst white elephant gift exchange in history. 

But Noctis is nothing if not prudent. At times, at least. Especially when he realizes that one of his friends is in distress. It’s plain for him to see that you’re desperately seeking his approval. You want to perform this spell, you clearly believe in its benefits, but he isn’t quite sold on the idea. What he really needs to know is: “What will happen to you?” 

“Nothing,” you lie immediately, right off of the damn bat. It’s your default setting but it’s not a _total_ lie, though. Nothing will really happen to you, at least not _initially_ , at least not if this goes off without a hitch. With all of those “what ifs” in mind, however, you make it your goal to be honest with Noctis. You’re going to inform him, as carefully as possible, of those grim little “what ifs.” 

“What’ll happen to me?” There go those arms, crossing again. 

As the sun’s rays bring about an increase in temperature, the dumpster begins to get smellier. That grease musk becomes truly formidable and you have to clear your throat a few times to keep your gag reflex at bay. Noct seems unaffected. Being a general slob tends to come with some perks, like a poorer sense of smell than a mage who works with subtle poisons. While you can still talk, you say, “Nothing that you can feel, either. Your life will go on, undisturbed. But there are some notable side-effects that it would be disingenuous of me not to mention.” 

“Like what? If you die, will I die or something like that?” 

“No. Death is an event, Noctis. Like a story. Events lead up to it, it reaches a climax, and then,” you raise your hands and allow them to fall to your sides, “there’s a denouement. If I were to die before you, those events leading up to it as well as the climax would occur. But the denouement, the soul ascending, won’t happen. My soul will be tethered to yours and as long as you remain in this realm, so shall I... in a rather loose sense. The side-effects that I feel it necessary to mention are a bit less on the extreme side as being stuck in limbo.” 

He digests this a moment. You don’t know it, but that little bit of what you consider to be extraneous information is parceled away. It’s perhaps the only reason why he would allow you to do this to yourself. That damn scholarly mage, overlooking the bigger picture for the sake of your goal. What Noctis Lucis Caelum hears is that so long as he’s in possession of your soul, _you can’t die_. He’s right and he’s wrong. If he’d only ask you, he’d find out exactly how wrong he is. 

But he thinks he has a leg up on you, that you let some useful information slip and are too stuck with your own tunnel-vision to realize it and capitalize on it yourself. Soulless creatures _can_ die. They just can never get closure. They can be raised from the dead, can never be enthralled because they’re already technically enthralled by the one who possesses their soul, but they can most certainly die. But in hoping for some silver lining, Noctis misunderstands and unwittingly seals your fate with you. 

“Well, what are the other side-effects?” The raven-haired royal grumbles. Don’t get him wrong, he’s glad to finally be hearing about what you’ve been getting up to. But this isn’t exactly optimal. For him, the back alley dumpster setting is rather fitting. Because to Noctis, this is an absolutely garbage thing for you to do. To spring this up on him so suddenly? Right when you’re about to leave and play spy? Your timing isn’t an accident. 

His question is answered swiftly with you closing your eyes so you can recall the passage in your grimoire more clearly. “Souls are naturally drawn to the vessels that they house. When Lumis did his binding magic, he noted that he was able to find the willing participant who allowed their soul to be bound to him. It was as if he was magnetically drawn to them, like the soul cried out for them. Another side-effect, um, is that I shouldn’t maintain this spell for too long,” you admit, opening your eyes. 

“Why not? Not that I want to keep your soul forever or anything,” Noct hastily adds, as if that’s a thing anyone would actually accuse him of. 

“The longer my soul is gone, the less I’ll be... _me_. Lumis mentioned that when he was on the opposite end of the bind, namely where his soul was the one taken, his magic began to fade. The body maintains some properties of the soul when it’s gone but those properties wane after time. Which is why I _insist_ that we don’t drag our feet in this endeavor.” A wry grin is shot Noct’s way. It totally isn’t returned. You cough uncomfortably into the crook of your elbow. “Anyway, I want you safe but I’d prefer not to remain soulless for too long.” 

“So, you’re doing this for me,” Noct states flatly. It’s not a question, it’s a very unenthused and almost accusatory statement. Well, can’t say you didn’t guess he would hate to know that you’re doing this solely for his benefit. Or _soul_ -ly... Okay. 

“You’re my prince and I’m sworn to protect you. I won’t rest until I fulfill my duty and see you safely to the throne. So, yes, it’s for you.” At his stoic expression, you sigh. “ _Also_ you’re my friend. I’m doing this because I care about you. I just want you safe and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you _stay_ safe. Will you allow me to do that? It’ll be quick and painless.” Especially since you’ve practiced so damn much. But you don’t say that. 

The raven-haired royal wishes he had a century to agonize over this. He wants to be able to consider this seriously and he wants to ask you about a million more questions. But you did this on purpose. He’s not fool enough to believe that the timing is a coincidence on your part. You’ve added this time constraint to force a hasty response out of him. And maybe he’s too confident in your abilities. Maybe you both are. Because Noctis nods his head grimly and answers, “Yes.” 

Noctis expects... Well, he actually doesn’t know _what_ to expect. But he does know that he expects the spell to be more grand than it is. Like... ritual candles and a dark room and a rune drawn in chalk on the floor type of stuff. All he gets is (y/n) Iovita waltzing on up to him behind the diner and extending their hand to him. The air around you seems to vibrate, your hand looks like it pulsates. It’s almost a bizarre optical illusion that hurts his eyes to look at, making him squint and finally turn his gaze away to the cracked concrete. 

As blue eyes are downcast, you focus inward. You don’t even have to close your eyes for this, you’ve worked with souls so often. Meditation is achieved with just the evening out of your breath and the slowing down of your pulse. Dumpster musk and the back end of the diner fades away so you and Noctis are all there is. That bright warmth that each person has inside of them? You focus on yours. It burns so bright, hot in your hand as you focus that energy into your palm. It’s scalding and a part of you fears that it might burn Noctis when he touches you. 

But it doesn’t. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, having your soul enter him. In fact, when Noctis finally grabs your hand and you clasp your other hand over the top of his, it feels intimate. There’s a vulnerability there that he can’t fully describe; a warmth that washes over him and makes him feel safe. It’s a comforting sensation. And for you it’s the exact opposite. Like a bucket of ice water was dropped over your head, bucket and all. You feel it in your spine, a cold electric bolt that stiffens your joints and fills you with a sense of wrongness and loss. 

Yet you remain impassive even as a small part of you panics and says that you’ve made a terrible mistake. You force yourself to be calm. Placate yourself by being logical and pointing out that this won’t last long- you’ll see them all in a couple of weeks, max, and then you’ll undo the bind. With a satisfied smile, you release Noct’s hand. That smile doesn’t betray an ounce of discomfort, for you mainly release the brunet’s hand because his skin is feeling far too hot against your own somehow. 

“The deed is done,” you announce proudly, chest puffed out and chin raised. Oh... Your head is swimming. Breathing is deepened until the feeling goes away. Now you can smile fully. 

“What? Already?” Noct blinks in surprise. He looks down at his hand which appears normal. How long did that take? A second? Two? You gave him your soul with a _handshake_? “That... That was quick.” 

“ _Told_ you. Quick and painless,” you crow. 

How anticlimactic. Not that he was wanting something dramatic or anything! But you just seemed so severe and you’ve been working on this spell for ages. You’d hinted at it before the way a parent talks about the boogeyman- all ominous and secretive. And yet... a handshake? _Really_? Noct doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over that. He almost wants to laugh. Leave it to you to accidentally lift his spirits. But then he remembers that you’re leaving and the brunet’s mood darkens once more. “So... I guess you wanna talk to Specs now before you leave.” 

“That’s correct.” That dejected expression is observed closely; dark lashes fluttering as the prince looks everywhere but in your direction. His hands find their way into the pockets of his jacket and his shoulders hunch. Though he wants to tell you to stay he knows you won’t listen. Or you _will_ listen and then he’ll have to live with knowing that he had to _order_ you to stay. In his foul mood, Noctis resents you for leaving when he feels like he needs your friendly support the most. 

“I’ll see you later.” He’s trying to be optimistic for your sake. He doesn’t want to say that, with the way things go in this world, he thinks it’s highly unlikely that you’ll be seeing each other again. He’s wrong. You _will_ see each other. It’ll just be far later than either one of you thinks. 

“That you will. It’s not gonna be so easy to get rid of me.” 

The brunet fixes you with a strange look for that. If he looks at you for too long, he finds himself feeling uneasy and he can’t explain why. Steely blue eyes glance away and your dear friend murmurs, “Bye, (y/n).” Noctis Lucis Caelum can’t stand goodbyes. It’s why he can’t look you in the eye when he says it. Because whether you want to admit it or not, this _is_ a goodbye. No number of promises or insistences otherwise will suddenly change the definition. 

And you _know_ that and you know you’re being childish for trying to avoid it. It’s strange. Being in Noct’s shadow right now, there’s a coldness that won’t abate. In the raven-haired royal’s wake, you feel hollowed out like one of the decorative gourds the workers would place about the Spire to signal the autumn season. As Noctis walks away from you, he takes with him the biggest part of you. It’s a fact that you try to draw strength from rather than panic. Lips twitch into a wan smile and you call, “Bye, for now.” 

You don’t leave Ignis waiting for very long. You don’t have a death wish and you’ll be damned if you die by Iggy’s hand because you didn’t give him a proper talking to. The brunet waits for you in the motel that you’ve all been staying in. The guys have cleared out of the room that they’ve been sharing, leaving you to have this discussion in private. Eyes squint and you have to blink a few times when you enter. This small room has been kept brightly lit ever since Iggy made it known that he can discern _forms_ though his vision is far from functional. 

Bright lights help him to better separate objects, or so he says. Not that you doubt him. A selfish part of you doesn’t like hearing him talk about his blindness in a positive way that’s clearly meant to make _you_ feel better. Well, that’s not fair. He says it for Noct’s benefit, as well. However, you’re the only one out of you and Noct to vocalize your disappointment in yourself to Ignis. Noctis hasn’t really spoken much. Behind the diner? That’s as much as he’s said in days and the trend will continue for even more days to come in your absence. 

Ignis sits on a couch that’s the color of baby puke. Everything about this motel room is unappealing with its clashing and garish colors but it’s clean and tidy, smelling faintly of cleaner. Tentatively, you make your way to the brunet and sit on the couch beside him. There’s only an hour left before your meeting. The daemon should be here soon. But all thoughts of the daemon and how it’s going to get you to Ardyn come to a screeching halt the second Ignis bluntly asks, “How long have you known him?” 

Eyes rove over his face. He remains facing forward, not turning his head in your direction or even tilting it to the side to denote that you have his attention. Stoic. That’s what he is. Stoic and disappointed. Quite possibly the most lethal combination coming from a man like Ignis. It’s why you carefully ask that most neutral and unassuming of questions: “What?” 

Now his head tilts. Now his pale, scarred brow furrows for the strategist to stiffly clarify, “The _chancellor_. (y/n), I’m no fool and I won’t have you play me for one. Though the others might avoid asking you why you have such a connection to the man to spare you the humiliation or because they were too shellshocked by your _bombshell_ of an announcement to consider how you would come to find yourself with that _man_ working as your advocate to the emperor, I’m asking you now: How do you know Ardyn Izunia?” 

Silence, from you, has always spoken volumes to the perceptive brunet. He knows you too well; so well that he doesn’t even have to see your face to know your guilt. That question falling like poison from his lips turns the blood in your veins to ice. It’s a question you’ve dreaded hearing since the moment you reunited with Ardyn. But guilt by association has never been a way of thinking for Iggy- it’s something he’s mindful to actively avoid because he knows how fallacious and unfair it is. 

He doesn’t want to be unfair to _you_. He’s as open-minded as he can be, considering he now knows that you’ve been lying to him and everyone else. Now, if only his face would cooperate. For it’s a cold thing to behold. Pursed lips and a clenched jaw? Those aren’t exactly what one sees in the expression of someone with an open mind. And that expression of his has you panicking a moment before you can steel yourself and tell yourself that although you’ve finally been found out, maybe, just _maybe_ you can argue your case and Ignis will understand. 

“How long have you known that I know him?” Answering a question with a question? Six, you nearly cringe. You’re lucky that Ignis is feeling merciful enough to not call you out, because _at least_ you’re admitting to it albeit in a skirting manner. 

“I’ve had my suspicions from the moment the two of you met. Those suspicions were confirmed with the _nicknames_ and the _looks_ ,” he says the words like someone is pulling his teeth. Hands are folded on his lap and Ignis turns his head so he’s staring straight ahead once more. “I just wanted to hear you say it. I wanted you to finally be honest with me.” 

That stings. Stings just enough to kick you into action so you’ll actually say something of substance. “After my aunt died, he was the only person from outside of the Spire who visited me. I’ve known him since I was a child and when we... when we _pretended_ to meet for the first time in Lestallum, I hadn’t seen him in five years.” 

“Do you consider him a friend?”

“I consider him to be someone who I used to think was a friend.”

“Do you believe that he will keep you safe when you’re in Niflheim?” 

For a moment you fear that he can smell your lies- detect the odor of deception. That fear along with genuine repentance for lying by omission to someone you claim to love is what keeps you honest. Perhaps brutally so. “I believe that he’ll keep me safe for as long as he believes that I’m useful. But befriending him again isn’t my mission, Ignis. My mission is to keep my eye on him so he doesn’t wreak anymore havoc, to have the Crystal returned to Lucis, and to see to it that the Empire finally falls once and for all.” 

Ignis nods. Those hands on his lap squeeze each other. You sound so very strange. That devotion of yours to your king and your kingdom has always been something that’s worried him. Ignis knows better than anyone else the allure of that siren song that is a call to one’s duty. But it has always seemed a little bit dangerous in you, like you care about everyone but yourself. He fears your devotion, your loyalty, is what will get you killed. And this mission only crystalizes those fears. He closes those ruined eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.” 

Body is turned so you can face him, the couch dipping under the shift in your weight. You reach forward and grab one of his hands, pry it out of his own grasp, and then place it to your cheek. Ignis turns toward you in response and presses his forehead against yours. “It won’t be forever,” you reassure him. “I’m in the perfect position to keep us ahead of the game. I should’ve done this sooner.” 

Ignis shakes his head. Those delicate eyebrows knit together and he hisses, “Why didn’t you tell me about any of _this_ sooner?” 

That frustration of his prompts you to gently rub your thumb in soothing circles against the back of his hand. “Truthfully?” 

“That’s all I ever ask of you.” 

“It was shameful to be part of an institution that allied itself with the people who killed my mother and crippled my kingdom. I didn’t want you to know about _any_ of this because I didn’t want you to make that association between me and the Spire and Ardyn. I didn’t want you to doubt my loyalty and think that I, too, would choose to save myself over what’s honorable. But I can tell now, that by keeping all of that hidden from you, I just gave you a reason to think everything that I didn’t want you to think about me,” you sigh. Gods, what a mess. 

“You’re prideful.” Ignis is ever the blunt talker. That simple statement basically clobbers you over the damn head. The brunet chuckles softly when he feels you blush under his hand but there isn’t much humor there. He’s emotionally exhausted, he’s disappointed, and he knows that there’s nothing he can do to make you stay. “I’ve always known that about you, (y/n). It doesn’t make me care for you any less and I don’t doubt your reasoning. I just wish that you had trusted me enough to tell me this before.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” He doesn’t say that he accepts your apology because he doesn’t. At least not yet, not when the wound is still fresh and bleeding. You’ve been lying to him and everyone else. Lying by omission, yes, but lying all the same. You’ve been doing it for so long. Although he can understand your point of view, putting himself in your shoes and feeling your fears, it still hurts to know that you didn’t trust him even after all that you went through together. Ignis is quiet a moment longer before he breathes, “I’m not upset with you.” 

“What?” You’re startled. Clearly he isn’t talking about your lying nature. Disappointment is still a palpable thing that you’re liable to suffocate under in this damn motel room. Peering into his face, your gaze wanders over those scars that mar his visage. Your eyes stare into what were once brilliantly emerald eyes. One thing that you’ll always regret is the moment of weakness in which you laid your soul bare to Ignis Scientia and revealed how you had failed him on multiple fronts. 

He was still freshly wounded and you had spiraled. He needed emotional support and you were shattered. He needed you to be strong and you were locked in a bathroom, crying on the floor. In battle, he had needed protection and you afforded him none. You’d been so focused on Noctis and Lunafreya that you didn’t give anyone else a second thought. And then, when presented with the opportunity to have him healed, you didn’t want to expose your immorality and you’ve left him blinded. 

The warmth from his hand is a comfort that you feel you don’t deserve. You find yourself shrinking away from it the longer he remains silent. Again, your throat tightens as it always does when you look at him for too long: The face of your shame and your shortcomings. “What are you saying? What aren’t you upset with me over?” You ask again and Ignis hears the strain in your voice. 

While you had been locked in that bathroom, he’d heard you crying. He doubts you even remember whimpering out to him that you had let him and everyone else down. You’d sounded so small and frail on the other side of the door and he’d begged you to unlock it but you wouldn’t. And then you had that exchange with your familiar and he could feel your grief and your rage. He can feel it now. He can feel your hatred for yourself and he says, “For being unable to heal me. I just need you to know that. I don’t want that to be a reason for why you’re leaving.” 

All of the good intentions behind his words are lost on you. That somber statement of his is like a dagger in your gut. He twists the blade unwittingly. You struggle to sound assured, to make your voice nice and strong so that you don’t worry him. When will you stop putting on masks? When will you learn that vulnerability isn’t a death sentence when it’s shown to someone who truly cares? “I’m not leaving for good. I’m doing this to protect you. All of you. I already failed once. I won’t let you down again, Ignis.” 

“You’ve never let me down, (y/n). _Never_.” And he isn’t lying to give you peace of mind. During Leviathan’s trial? When you needed time to yourself to recuperate after? You didn’t let him down. When you couldn’t or wouldn’t heal him? You didn’t let him down. It isn’t your utility- what you can do for him- that he values. He values and loves you as a person. He tries to convey as much in the hug that he gives you that lasts long but not long enough just before you leave. 

But when you leave and when you _stay gone_? That’s when you let him down. When you begin to follow Ardyn around like you’re his shadow? When people report that you’re doing his biding like a loyal toady? That’s when Ignis begins to turn away from you. Even with all of the hints you dropped of what you would do, he resents you. The loss of his childhood friend embitters him and takes away what faith he had left. Though he tries to remain strong, it’s difficult to do when one feels alone, when one feels like they’ve been cast aside by the one they love. 

It takes a long time for Ignis to forgive you and it takes even longer for him to forgive himself. He’s surrounded by your greatest advocates: Prompto Argentum and Talcott Hester. When Ignis vocalizes his doubts, they remind him of your mission: Keeping an eye on Ardyn Izunia. And Ignis is sorry for being suspicious of you when you don’t return to his side once the Empire falls. He’s truly sorry. Because while he’s busy doubting your loyalty because you play the part of the turncoat too well, you’re bleeding out alone in the Spire because of that loyalty. 

And as you breathe your last breath, as you’re in your most vulnerable state, you wish he was there by your side despite having let him down. Again, you’ll be left crying on a floor by yourself. Iggy always had to be right. You care too much about the people you love to spare your own well-being a second thought. For that, you earn yourself the hug of a childhood friend and a dagger in your chest. You’ll have blood in your teeth and Ignis Scientia on your mind. 

* * *

**Gladiolus**

Going about business as usual is almost too easy for you. Should that worry you? You aren’t too sure. What affords you adequate cover is that embarrassing outburst of yours because _nobody_ asks you anything other than how you’re doing. Are you okay? Did you sleep well? How are your hands feeling? It’s almost embarrassing. _Almost_. Secrecy is mistaken for you mourning and trying to hide your emotions to avoid another outburst. No one suspects that you raised the Oracle from the dead and had the daemon spirit her away. 

Why would anybody think you’d done something so outlandish and then kept it to yourself rather than reveal it to them all and assuage their guilt and their grief? When the truth comes out- oh, and it _always_ does- the fact that you raised Luna from the dead and didn’t tell any of them is what the guys have a hard time coming to terms with. It’s insulting. The fact that you didn’t trust them enough with that information? That you let them live their lives believing that she had died and _stayed_ dead? 

After it’s revealed, everything else unravels like a loose ball of yarn in your hands. It goes spilling out from between your fingers as you struggle to keep it all together in a perfect little ball. Because Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, once she’s discovered, will be your secret keeper no more. Not when she’s borne witness to how you’ve suffered for the sake of those secrets, how you’ve suffered for a world that largely comes to turn its back on you and look at you like a villain. She’s never been the type to abide slander, that Luna. 

But when the jig is finally up, as they say, the one left reeling the most is Gladiolus Amicitia. Although he’s angry with you now when you announce your plans, although he’ll give you hell, he has faith in you. Too much faith, really. That’s what hurts the most. And today you betray his trust and his faith by ambushing him and your friends. You betray him by behaving in a way that says that you have _no_ faith and _no_ trust in him. You do this when you sit him down along with everyone else to say goodbye. And you do it again when you don’t return. 

Even when you ran it by Luna, she’d pursed her lips and told you, “Absolutely not. (y/n), I think you greatly overestimate the protections you’ll be afforded once you make it into that... inner- circle.” She’d held your hands in hers and scolded, “You’re not immortal and you are _not_ impervious to harm even if you believe the chancellor will protect you because he finds you _useful_. What if he finds that you’re no longer of any use to him? What then, (y/n)? You’ll be surrounded by the enemy without a single ally to help you.” 

“That’s not entirely true,” you’d replied curtly, turning your eyes onto the daemon who had straightened its back proudly in response. 

No one can convince you that you _don’t_ need to be close to Ardyn to try and figure out what he’s doing. You want to be there to stop future attacks or to at least inform the others so they can land a preemptive strike and avoid harm. When Ardyn had first approached you about the offer, you’d been too offended to realize what an opportunity he was presenting you with. The hen house had practically been opened nice and wide for you to trot right on in. The Empire beckoned for the wily fox. 

Still, you have to fight off nerves even as you tell yourself that this is the most sensible course of action. You’re all sat in a diner, picking at your food, when you spring this plan on all of them. The diner is mostly empty and you’re seated between Gladio and Prompto. Everyone eats in relative silence. It’s literally a day after you raised Luna from the dead. Boy, do you move fast once you’ve got a plan going. It’s almost as if you’re running on borrowed time. 

Wilted greens get pushed around your plate for a few minutes. Stomach ties itself into tight knots. Prompto strikes up a conversation with Iggy about which dog breed is the best and Gladio pipes in to make a strong case for pugs. Gods, you don’t want to spoil a conversation about dogs. But you suppose there’s really no good time to bring this up; to reveal yourself for the fibber that you are for the sake of liberating yourself and providing yourself with the opportunity to be _useful_. 

Six, the Spire sure did a number on you; wrapping up your self-worth in your utility. 

This wild idea of yours is sold to your closest allies as an infallible thing. Confidence radiates off of you even as you stab at salad. Your loyalty is unwavering and unquestionable. Logically, they all think that the only bad thing that could come of this is that you might be found out and harmed. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll blur the line between enemy and ally. They don’t anticipate just how much you’ll make them question your motives. Because you? You’re a damn fine actor. Maybe too fine an actor, truth be told. 

You pretty much spent your whole life learning how to sniff out lies and how to keep _yours_ from getting sniffed. It’d never occurred to you that not everybody lived that way. Some people are far more trusting than others- certainly more trusting than _you_. These guys that you’ve befriended? They aren’t exactly easy prey for deceivers. Case in point: Their suspicion of Ardyn. It helps you to rest easy knowing that they won’t be anyone’s fool, especially not Ardyn Izunia’s even before he overplayed his hand. 

But their distrust of the redhead makes what you tell them far more difficult than need be. Ardyn revealing his malicious nature makes it that much more difficult for you to convince your friends that pretending to throw in with him is a good idea. It’s a hard sell. Convincing others that you _aren’t_ actively working against your best interests is basically a talent of yours by this point. I mean, how many times have you convinced Gladio that you _totally_ don’t need combat practice even though you’ve been downed about a million times in battle? 

“You want to _what_?” The Shield all but growls, dark eyebrows knitted together, pugs and his burger long forgotten. 

If there’s one thing to be said about you, it’s that you move quickly. When you think that your friends might be in peril, you’re swift to act as if you have absolute impunity. It takes everyone by surprise because they’d all been working under the assumption that you’ve been depressed or, at the very least, in a very foul mood. And now you approach them with _this_ : A scheme that almost seems to spell your doom even as you hold your chin up like you own the damn world. 

How long have you been planning this, they all wonder, and Gladio is... Well, to put it lightly he’s _steaming_. The two of you had a heartfelt chat before the Hydraean’s trial and, yes, he _knows_ you took the consequences of the trial to heart. The Shield knew things were headed south the moment you locked yourself in that bathroom and Ignis couldn’t get you to come out. Though Gladiolus could empathize with your guilt for what happened with Lady Lunafreya and Iggy, he couldn’t help but feel frustrated. 

And now he feels guilty, too. Because he knows that his irritation with you has been obvious. He scowls when he brings you food so that you can _finally_ eat. He rolls his eyes when someone says something to you and there’s a delay in your mumbled response. It’s _no wonder_ that you didn’t confide in him about your plan. While he’s angry with you for springing this on him and everyone else, he’s also angry with himself for playing a part in your isolation. The Shield realizes that he wasn’t there for you like he should’ve been. 

Gladio has always been just a little too much of a hothead. It’s something that never ceased to tire his father or amuse his sister, both of whom would be disappointed in his recent treatment of you. Because that resentfulness blossomed forth like a poisonous flower when the Hydraean’s trial knocked you down and you seemed to choose to _stay_ down. You didn’t spring back like him. Gladiolus took it all on the chin and made himself available to Ignis. Gladio helped and he thinks you’ve played a huge part in hindering the group’s recovery. You and Noct _both_. 

The Shield resents the two of you for not dusting yourselves off and getting back into the fight. He doesn’t fully understand how deep that grief digs into you and the royal; birds of a feather in the way you martyr yourselves. It’s disappointing. No, not how you had shut the world out. It’s disappointing that you did so and that Gladiolus _didn’t_ rise to the challenge. He hates himself for it. Hates that he couldn’t get through his resentment to help you. It’s something he would’ve done for Iris; to be that solid figure, that touchstone if she needed him. 

Yet he didn’t even offer you that much. You shut down and he shut up. 

He should have insisted on talking to you. He should have made it known to you that he was there to support you. So many “should haves” go through his mind as he glowers down at the diner table, unable to look at you out of shame. The brunet bodyguard knows that he hasn’t been compassionate; he’s allowed his own frustration to keep him from being attentive to your needs. Ignis is crippled and you and Noct checked out. Noct still hasn’t stepped up to fulfill his duty, to claim his birthright, and now _you’ve_ finally stepped up just to say you’re leaving. 

And he’s torn in two. Really. Because Gladiolus Amicitia both resents you and admires you for making this decision. The Shield has never believed that you’re one who needs your hand held; you go about with your arcane affairs with no help from anyone. He knows you’re a capable mage who is resilient, though you _do_ have your low points just like everyone else. He has full faith that you can do anything that you put your mind to. But dammit if he worries. Dammit if he wants to protect you. 

Ignis sips his soda. It’s a miracle he gets any of it in him, his lips are so pursed. “I believe they said they want to try their hand at being a spy. I, for one, am confused as to how you believe such a thing can be accomplished, (y/n).” You’re a bleary, almost formless thing with his ruined sight. Ignis is aware of where you are, but you bleed into the two men who flank you and the diner around you. Still, he fixes those foggy eyes on you and you can feel the heat of his judgment all the same. 

You’re on edge. Red pleather eagerly sticks to sweaty palms. Though you loathe confrontation and the daemon usually helps you through these types of things with its lighthearted commentary that only you can hear, you purposefully planned to have this conversation while it was off getting Lady Lunafreya situated in a location that even _you_ don’t know of. You’d asked the daemon if it knew of any places that Luna could hide and not encounter another person; places Ardyn might not know about. 

It seemed to have something in mind but when it went to tell you the location, you refused to hear. “Just in case.” The daemon didn’t like that. You made it seem like it was a possibility that you might be put in a situation where it would be dangerous for you to know of Luna’s whereabouts. And you will be. On a near constant basis. So, you don’t want the daemon here on purpose, for it would surely be firmly on your friends’ side and directly opposed to you, for once in its life. Especially since it’s very much aware of the danger you foresee. 

The two silent parties here are Noctis and Prompto. Prom is withholding judgment, which explains his silence even as he turns in the booth to face you. Those blue eyes watch you, unblinking. His expression is unreadable, which is a first for him. And Noctis? He’s been checked-out ever since Ignis broke the news to him that Luna had died. He barely even mumbles responses to anyone and broods all day, his failure to keep Luna safe weighing so very heavily on him. You wish he would talk. Because you need him to corroborate what you’re about to say. 

Reclining back in the booth, you confess, “I believe that I can infiltrate the Empire because of my connection to the Spire.” Something you’d shamefully been mum about since Insomnia fell. All eyes are on you. Your friends don’t understand what the Spire has to do with this until you continue, face an eerily still mask, “The Spire of Duscae has sworn fealty to the Empire and by rights I’m the Arch-Mage of that institution. This is a prime opportunity for me to gather intel.” 

It takes a moment for this to settle in. Logically, Gladiolus and Ignis knew that that might be the case with the Spire. Such an underhanded institution that made sneaky, self-serving moves even when the Iovitas were at the helm. In the back of their mind, they’d known that it would only be a matter of time before the institution decided to cut its losses without an Iovita there to keep it in check. But now you’re saying that already happened... Now you’re saying that already happened with _you_ as the Arch-Mage. 

A lot of assumptions spring up and not one of them is pretty, not one paints you in a very flattering light. All of them feature you as a liar. Because either you just found this opportunity out now, the Spire defected from Lucis recently, or the Spire allied itself with the Empire a while ago and you knew but never told them a word. Iggy and Gladio lean toward the latter. It’s an ugly assumption based on the matter-of-fact way that you present this information; like you’d mulled it over for a long, long time. 

“You _aren’t_ a spy,” Gladiolus points out, like that will somehow change your mind, undo this plot. It’s a desperate move from a desperate man. Gladiolus Amicitia knows how (y/n) Iovita can be like a dog with a bone. A trait he’d admired in you before he knew it might send you down the path to getting yourself murdered by Niffs. Though he’s confident in you and he’d bet on you any day of the damn week, that doesn’t squash his protective instincts. 

“Not by trade but I know a thing or two about working people for information. The Spire is already pushing me to meet with the emperor. If I can get on his good side-” A lie. Fuck the emperor. You’re getting back on Ardyn’s “good side” and this way you can actually keep an eye on him rather than have him sneak up on you like a jump scare in a shitty horror movie. “-I might be privy to some important information. Or, at the very least, I can sneak around and see what I stumble across.” 

Prompto finally pipes up, sounding frightened, “Are you saying that you’re _leaving_?” 

You spare him a flippant glance even as your stomach takes a tumble. “Not permanently. I’m going to pretend to be a turncoat. I’m going to pretend that I value my life above all of yours and that I’m willing to sell you all out for protection. I’m going to pretend that I’m truly a Spire mage.” Soda is sipped. You don’t taste it. “Besides, the end goal is Niflheim and the Crystal. We’re all going to be there at some point. I’ll give us the opportunity to scope the place out and give us an advantage.” 

“You could get yourself killed!” Exclaims the blond. Then those cornflower blue eyes dart around the diner suspiciously, remembering where he is. Nobody is paying you all any mind. The whole world seems to be in mourning, seems to be in some sort of unfeeling stupor since it was announced that the Oracle died. 

Indignant, you coldly inform him, “I could get myself killed _every day_ on this quest and so could you. This? I’m lessening the chances of that happening. Don’t you understand?” Why is everyone giving you such a hard time? Well, you _know_ why. But for once in your life you don’t want someone to care about you. At least not so much that it hinders your ability to become who you believe you need to become in order to serve your kingdom and protect those you love. You want to be brave but no one is having it. 

They’re giving you a hard time because they care about you and they do it for their own peace of mind. Not one of them could live with themselves if they _didn’t_ harangue you over this and you wind up dead. It’s frustrating. It’s so damn frustrating because they all realize that the opportunity to have someone “on the inside” is invaluable. But why does it have to be _you_? There are Lucian spies all over so why do you have to be the one to end up with a direct connection to the emperor? 

The thing that really bugs Gladiolus is that he knows for a fact that if he were in your position, he’d make the _exact_ same move. So he can’t even fault you for this. Doesn’t mean he feels good about it. Doesn’t mean that irritable, resentful nature- the worst part of his nature- doesn’t come clawing back to the forefront. ‘Cause even though he feels like he failed you by not being supportive enough in the wake of tragedy, it’s not as if he could’ve got you to actually vocalize your grievances. And even if you didn’t talk through your grief, that doesn’t mean you couldn’t talk to him about _this_. 

“It sounds as though you’ve made up your mind,” observes Ignis. He sounds so bitter that you can nearly taste his acrid tone on the tip of your tongue. The brunet strategist has resorted to subtly jamming his straw through the mass of ice cubes at the bottom of his cup. The thin plastic begins to bend and get a few kinks. Ignis Scientia isn’t hiding the fact that he’s frustrated. ‘Cause this is the first time in a long time that you’re actually carrying on a conversation with everyone and it’s so you can say goodbye. 

Chin is raised, shoulders squared. At least your body is coming across as assured ‘cause you’re having one hell of an internal debate. They’re all actually making you second-guess this decision. Even Luna made you second-guess yourself, so you suppose you should’ve seen this coming. But you won’t relent. Besides, it’s not as though this goodbye is forever. Right? Your gaze alights on each and every one of them, taking in their severe expressions. You smile and admit, “I have. This discussion is merely a formality. I’ll be leaving later today.” 

And you know that probably comes across as too cold, to leave so suddenly and with no input from your friends. There’s no time to waste. The longer you squander this chance to become the emperor’s fake arcane advisor, the smaller that window of opportunity becomes. As it stands, you’re sure it’s no wider than a pinhead. Ardyn was eager enough to meet and you know that’s not because he so desperately needs you in his employ or anything of the sort. It’s more a matter or seeing you eat your own words... Or so you think. 

Panic makes Gladiolus’ heart skip a beat. So _soon_? Eager to point out the hole in your plan so that the others can jump on it and hopefully make it wider to sink the whole thing, Gladiolus grunts, “How exactly do you think you’re gonna meet the emperor, Magey? It’s been public knowledge for a while that you’ve been traveling with His Highness. Everyone knows that your family’s loyalty to the Crown spans back for generations _and_ that you’ve been sworn to his service since birth. Ya think the guy is just gonna-” 

“I’ll meet him through Chancellor Izunia.” 

“ _What_?” That snaps Noctis out of his daze. Where once he was content to simply watch you, expression neutral though disappointed and promising some petulance in the near future, now there’s something fiery in his gaze. His hands clench into fists beneath the table. “You’re meeting with that _lunatic_?” 

“A lunatic who we should be keeping a close eye on rather than allowing to run about with reckless abandon until he collides into one of us.” When he does nothing but glower, you bitterly point out, “We can’t allow ourselves to be run by fear. Are we going to turn a blind eye to the fact that one or all of us could’ve died that day, too?” Yeah. You’re acutely aware of the phrase that you used. Fortunately, you’ll find that Iggy will use that phrase _often_ with a good-natured smirk on his face at the stunned silence of someone who doesn’t know him better. 

“What time do you leave?” Questions Prompto, sounding resigned. 

Phone is tugged out of your pocket so it can be stared at. “A hair after four at a location that I won’t disclose to you all.” Because it’s actually in Niflheim and you know for a fact that everyone will wonder how the heck you expect to get behind enemy lines in just a couple of short hours. It’s not as though you can boldly admit that you’ll be traveling via shadow-walking daemon. But at this point, you could say that _you’re_ a shadow-walking daemon and nobody would notice for all the sudden brooding. 

Silence settles over the table and permeates the diner’s already bleak atmosphere. You’re being unfair. You know that much and the “unfair mage” is a role that you’re willing to play as long as things turn out in your allies’ favor in the end. You can’t meet up with any of Lucis’ soldiers. You can’t be seen meeting up with the likes of Cor Leonis or anyone of high military rank. You’d never done it before, after all. It would be highly suspicious of you to be seen meeting with soldiers right before you go and talk business with the chancellor of Niflheim. 

Word travels fast. You know that. Especially if Ardyn is on the receiving end of that news. So, even though you know it would help your friends rest easy at night knowing that you’re going to be backed by soldiers if things go awry, you did this on purpose. The timing? It leaves no room for an official mission to be carefully drawn up for you with nice things like contingency plans to ensure that your chance of meeting a grim end is _at least_ under 70% or something like that. 

You’re blissfully unaware of exactly how this is all going to blow up. 

“I’ll communicate with you lot through my familiar,” you announce once this dead silence has gone on for too long. “They’ll bring you letters since I highly doubt I’ll be allowed access to a phone, given the imperials should have at least a _shred_ of suspicion of me and my intentions if they aren’t braindead.” 

Noct furrows his brow, blue eyes morose. “You mean... We won’t see you again until we get to Niflheim?” 

“Yeah. So make it snappy, guys. I don’t know if I’ll like the food there or not,” you joke and everyone looks like they want to smack you for making a joke right now. Yikes. Maybe they should? With a dignified cough to clear your throat of a sudden lump, you carefully drawl, “I’m not saying goodbye because this _isn’t_ goodbye. I’ll be seeing you all shortly. I can promise you that. Anyway, I need a word alone with Noctis and after, I’d like a word with you, Gladiolus.” 

“Yeah. You do that. I’ll be here,” the Shield grunts, not once looking you in the eye. 

The way you leave the diner is exactly how you leave their lives: Easily and without a glance back. You do it coldly, as if you’ve not a drop of emotion in your entire body. Really, you haven’t ever been one for goodbyes. “Goodbye” was something you never got to say to Aunt Lysa, your grandfather, or your mother. They were there one day and gone the next. And you’re the same for the guys. You’re there by their side one day, laughing and telling stories, and you’re gone the next. 

This isn’t exactly how you imagined doing all of this. The spell? The bind? Fulfilling your duty to Noctis as his ardent arcane advisor and as the Mage? Though you spent most of your time agonizing over whether or not you’d be able to practice enough before doing the bind to yourself and Noctis rather than thinking about such trivialities as the location of said spell, you can honestly say you didn’t think it’d be done behind a roadside diner after you just got done alienating your friends. 

It stinks of old grease back here, more so than in the diner itself. There’s a dumpster not five feet away behind Noctis who has his arms crossed and is currently pinning you with a steely glare. The sun is already so low in the sky, washing everything in warm orange light. Still, the atmosphere remains chilly between you and your royal charge. You suppose there’s no real use mincing words now. The only reason you’d beat around the bush would be for Noct’s comfort. Obviously, with that glare, no comfort will be had today. 

Eyes flicker down at a bit of rubbish near your boots. It’s a wrapper for a burger, stained with dried mustard and a bit of shriveled onion still there. Hands find their way nervously into your back pockets. You rock back on your heels before looking up and bluntly stating, “I want to give you temporary custody of my soul.” 

“What?” His reaction isn’t exactly immediate. Noct stands there for about a solid two seconds, just processing the bizarre thing that you told him. You’d vaguely mentioned something like this about your soul before but he didn’t think you’d _actually_ go through with it. 

Hands get shoved so far into your pockets it’s a miracle you don’t bust the seams. “I know I shouldn’t joke about this, but it feels as though a joke is necessary. What I’m proposing is me willingly handing over my soul to you for you to house it within your own body. Are you still with me?” Patronizing isn’t the angle that you’re going for, but you sure do fall into it so easily. Noct, for his part, doesn’t notice and doesn’t get offended because his head is already spinning. He can’t fathom why the _ever-loving hell_ you’d want to do something that sounds absolutely batshit crazy. 

“Yeah...” he replies at great length, arms falling out of that crossed position to rest by his sides, “I’m following you for now. Can’t follow the logic, but I’m following you.” 

Well, the least of your worries is that Noctis thinks you’re out of your mind. He could think so much worse. You allow yourself to be content with the mild judgment on his face and continue to explain yourself. “With my soul, a very _rare_ and _wonderful_ Iovita soul,” you _must_ joke or else the tension is going to kill you, “magic should come much easier to you. You’ll be as limitless as I in that capacity but only for as long as you have my soul. And Noctis? I need your consent for this.” 

Consent that he’s not exactly willing to give right now, to be perfectly honest. You can see it in his face. The way every muscle in his body tenses up and his eyes go narrow. His mouth tightens but he struggles to keep it from turning into a frown. “Is that the only way this magic works?” He wants to turn you down outright but he’s giving you the courtesy of a fair hearing. Well, “fair” considering he already has his own bias. Anything that sounds remotely like it might harm you gets an immediate “no” in Noct’s book. But you’re a hell of a salesperson. 

“No... _I_ need your consent,” is your careful response that’s delivered as quickly as molasses drips from a spoon in the dead of winter. “This can be done to you whether you want it done or not.” How ominous. How _exactly_ how you didn’t want to come across. This magic is supposed to be sold to Noct as something useful and good, not imposing and deleterious. Yet here you go sounding all authoritarian like you’re liable to rip your soul out of your body and force it upon Noct like the worst white elephant gift exchange in history. 

But Noctis is nothing if not prudent. At times, at least. Especially when he realizes that one of his friends is in distress. It’s plain for him to see that you’re desperately seeking his approval. You want to perform this spell, you clearly believe in its benefits, but he isn’t quite sold on the idea. What he really needs to know is: “What will happen to you?” 

“Nothing,” you lie immediately, right off of the damn bat. It’s your default setting but it’s not a _total_ lie, though. Nothing will really happen to you, at least not _initially_ , at least not if this goes off without a hitch. With all of those “what ifs” in mind, however, you make it your goal to be honest with Noctis. You’re going to inform him, as carefully as possible, of those grim little “what ifs.” 

“What’ll happen to me?” There go those arms, crossing again. 

As the sun’s rays bring about an increase in temperature, the dumpster begins to get smellier. That grease musk becomes truly formidable and you have to clear your throat a few times to keep your gag reflex at bay. Noct seems unaffected. Being a general slob tends to come with some perks, like a poorer sense of smell than a mage who works with subtle poisons. While you can still talk, you say, “Nothing that you can feel, either. Your life will go on, undisturbed. But there are some notable side-effects that it would be disingenuous of me not to mention.” 

“Like what? If you die, will I die or something like that?” 

“No. Death is an event, Noctis. Like a story. Events lead up to it, it reaches a climax, and then,” you raise your hands and allow them to fall to your sides, “there’s a denouement. If I were to die before you, those events leading up to it as well as the climax would occur. But the denouement, the soul ascending, won’t happen. My soul will be tethered to yours and as long as you remain in this realm, so shall I... in a rather loose sense. The side-effects that I feel it necessary to mention are a bit less on the extreme side as being stuck in limbo.” 

He digests this a moment. You don’t know it, but that little bit of what you consider to be extraneous information is parceled away. It’s perhaps the only reason why he would allow you to do this to yourself. That damn scholarly mage, overlooking the bigger picture for the sake of your goal. What Noctis Lucis Caelum hears is that so long as he’s in possession of your soul, _you can’t die_. He’s right and he’s wrong. If he’d only ask you, he’d find out exactly how wrong he is. 

But he thinks he has a leg up on you, that you let some useful information slip and are too stuck with your own tunnel-vision to realize it and capitalize on it yourself. Soulless creatures _can_ die. They just can never get closure. They can be raised from the dead, can never be enthralled because they’re already technically enthralled by the one who possesses their soul, but they can most certainly die. But in hoping for some silver lining, Noctis misunderstands and unwittingly seals your fate with you. 

“Well, what are the other side-effects?” The raven-haired royal grumbles. Don’t get him wrong, he’s glad to finally be hearing about what you’ve been getting up to. But this isn’t exactly optimal. For him, the back alley dumpster setting is rather fitting. Because to Noctis, this is an absolutely garbage thing for you to do. To spring this up on him so suddenly? Right when you’re about to leave and play spy? Your timing isn’t an accident. 

His question is answered swiftly with you closing your eyes so you can recall the passage in your grimoire more clearly. “Souls are naturally drawn to the vessels that they house. When Lumis did his binding magic, he noted that he was able to find the willing participant who allowed their soul to be bound to him. It was as if he was magnetically drawn to them, like the soul cried out for them. Another side-effect, um, is that I shouldn’t maintain this spell for too long,” you admit, opening your eyes. 

“Why not? Not that I want to keep your soul forever or anything,” Noct hastily adds, as if that’s a thing anyone would actually accuse him of. 

“The longer my soul is gone, the less I’ll be... _me_. Lumis mentioned that when he was on the opposite end of the bind, namely where his soul was the one taken, his magic began to fade. The body maintains some properties of the soul when it’s gone but those properties wane after time. Which is why I _insist_ that we don’t drag our feet in this endeavor.” A wry grin is shot Noct’s way. It totally isn’t returned. You cough uncomfortably into the crook of your elbow. “Anyway, I want you safe but I’d prefer not to remain soulless for too long.” 

“So, you’re doing this for me,” Noct states flatly. It’s not a question, it’s a very unenthused and almost accusatory statement. Well, can’t say you didn’t guess he would hate to know that you’re doing this solely for his benefit. Or _soul_ -ly... Okay. 

“You’re my prince and I’m sworn to protect you. I won’t rest until I fulfill my duty and see you safely to the throne. So, yes, it’s for you.” At his stoic expression, you sigh. “ _Also_ you’re my friend. I’m doing this because I care about you. I just want you safe and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make sure you _stay_ safe. Will you allow me to do that? It’ll be quick and painless.” Especially since you’ve practiced so damn much. But you don’t say that. 

The raven-haired royal wishes he had a century to agonize over this. He wants to be able to consider this seriously and he wants to ask you about a million more questions. But you did this on purpose. He’s not fool enough to believe that the timing is a coincidence on your part. You’ve added this time constraint to force a hasty response out of him. And maybe he’s too confident in your abilities. Maybe you both are. Because Noctis nods his head grimly and answers, “Yes.” 

Noctis expects... Well, he actually doesn’t know _what_ to expect. But he does know that he expects the spell to be more grand than it is. Like... ritual candles and a dark room and a rune drawn in chalk on the floor type of stuff. All he gets is (y/n) Iovita waltzing on up to him behind the diner and extending their hand to him. The air around you seems to vibrate, your hand looks like it pulsates. It’s almost a bizarre optical illusion that hurts his eyes to look at, making him squint and finally turn his gaze away to the cracked concrete. 

As blue eyes are downcast, you focus inward. You don’t even have to close your eyes for this, you’ve worked with souls so often. Meditation is achieved with just the evening out of your breath and the slowing down of your pulse. Dumpster musk and the back end of the diner fades away so you and Noctis are all there is. That bright warmth that each person has inside of them? You focus on yours. It burns so bright, hot in your hand as you focus that energy into your palm. It’s scalding and a part of you fears that it might burn Noctis when he touches you. 

But it doesn’t. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, having your soul enter him. In fact, when Noctis finally grabs your hand and you clasp your other hand over the top of his, it feels intimate. There’s a vulnerability there that he can’t fully describe; a warmth that washes over him and makes him feel safe. It’s a comforting sensation. And for you it’s the exact opposite. Like a bucket of ice water was dropped over your head, bucket and all. You feel it in your spine, a cold electric bolt that stiffens your joints and fills you with a sense of wrongness and loss. 

Yet you remain impassive even as a small part of you panics and says that you’ve made a terrible mistake. You force yourself to be calm. Placate yourself by being logical and pointing out that this won’t last long- you’ll see them all in a couple of weeks, max, and then you’ll undo the bind. With a satisfied smile, you release Noct’s hand. That smile doesn’t betray an ounce of discomfort, for you mainly release the brunet’s hand because his skin is feeling far too hot against your own somehow. 

“The deed is done,” you announce proudly, chest puffed out and chin raised. Oh... Your head is swimming. Breathing is deepened until the feeling goes away. Now you can smile fully. 

“What? Already?” Noct blinks in surprise. He looks down at his hand which appears normal. How long did that take? A second? Two? You gave him your soul with a _handshake_? “That... That was quick.” 

“ _Told_ you. Quick and painless,” you crow. 

How anticlimactic. Not that he was wanting something dramatic or anything! But you just seemed so severe and you’ve been working on this spell for ages. You’d hinted at it before the way a parent talks about the boogeyman- all ominous and secretive. And yet... a handshake? _Really_? Noct doesn’t think he’s ever going to get over that. He almost wants to laugh. Leave it to you to accidentally lift his spirits. But then he remembers that you’re leaving and the brunet’s mood darkens once more. “So... I guess you wanna talk to Gladio now before you leave.” 

“Yeah.” That dejected expression is observed closely; dark lashes fluttering as the prince looks everywhere but in your direction. His hands find their way into the pockets of his jacket and his shoulders hunch. Though he wants to tell you to stay he knows you won’t listen. Or you _will_ listen and then he’ll have to live with knowing that he had to _order_ you to stay. In his foul mood, Noctis resents you for leaving when he feels like he needs your friendly support the most. You’re the only one who seems to grieve like him. He doesn’t want to be alone. 

“I’ll see you later.” He’s trying to be optimistic for your sake. He doesn’t want to say that, with the way things go in this world, he thinks it’s highly unlikely that you’ll be seeing each other again. He’s wrong, of course. You _will_ see each other again. It’ll just be far later than either one of you thinks. 

You give him a cocky smirk to put him at ease. “That you will. It’s not gonna be so easy to get rid of _me_ , Highness.” 

The prince shoots you an irritated look for the way you address him. That obnoxious best friend of a mage. He hates goodbyes but he gives you one anyway, “Bye, (y/n).” It’s neutral, said without even looking at you as he turns on his heel to leave. 

You pause a moment, feeling cold and hollow in his shadow. When he turns his back on you, it feels like the world turns with him. A tightness settles in your chest. It brings with it a burst of fear-based adrenaline that makes you suddenly exhausted. Just as Noct rounds the corner of the diner, most likely headed back to the motel to lie down in bed, you call out and your voice breaks, “Bye.” 

By the time you get back into the diner, the others have left and the table has been cleared of all but Gladiolus’ burger. The Shield sits facing the door, never one to be with his back to any entrances or exits, preferring to be able to see who comes and goes. With this in mind, it’s very telling that he doesn’t look up when you enter. You order a coffee at the counter and then proceed to enter into what’s going to go down as one of the most emotionally exhausting confrontations of your life. 

There are a few key traits of Gladiolus’ that you’re accustomed to. For instance, you’re already used to his sometimes prickly personality and his blunt manner of speaking. Today, however, you learn that he can be passive aggressive and that passive aggression is only deployed when you’re treading treacherous waters with the Shield. If you’d had more time to talk to Iris, she would’ve warned you about her big bro’s moodiness. She would’ve told you that when he gets angry enough, when he reaches his boiling point, not even puppy eyes can save you. 

So, it’s a good thing you aren’t in the mood for making eyes at Gladiolus Amicitia. It’s a good thing _and_ a bad thing that you’re already feeling rather run down after handing off your soul to Noctis like a back-alley drug deal that you don’t bother mincing words. With a grim smile that tries to be apologetic, you sit down across from the Shield. Coffee is served quickly, hot and black, and you take a sip before sighing, “I’m sorry for coming at you with this so suddenly. I know relationships typically involve full disclosure, but I didn’t have the time to tell you.” 

“But you had the time to think about it, plot it all out, and arrange a meeting with the enemy. Right?” Gladio looks like he’s accusing his burger because he’s not daring to look at you. If he looks at you his anger will start to fizzle out because you’re more than likely unaffected. You’re always level-headed and infuriatingly unemotional during arguments that it shames him. But he won’t be shamed today. No. Though he knows he owes you an apology for being an asshole about your grieving process, your sudden spy mission kinda trumps that in his book. 

He’ll come to regret that decision. Not apologizing to you for aiding in your isolation tactics? That’s going to haunt him for a long time. In this moment, he’s furious about you keeping so many secrets from him. You’re supposed to _trust_ him. Yet you’ve been lying all the while. Bitterly, he rightly guesses that you’d disclosed some of this stuff, particularly some Spire stuff, to Noct. Boy, that sticks in his craw. Boy, that becomes an ugly sort of jealousy even though he always knew and it was always an understanding between the advisors that Noct came first. 

“Disappointment” doesn’t even begin to cover what he’s feeling. He wants to grab you and shake you, to yell, but he knows that would only make things worse. He’d just be crossing a line that can’t be uncrossed. The Shield settles on giving you the most bizarre cold shoulder known to man; one where he talks _at_ you and doesn’t really listen to your responses; one where he uses his words as a weapon and cuts you right down to the bone; one that he’ll wish he never employed. 

“I’m sorry.” That apology means nothing to him. They’re just words. You’ve always had your pretty words and he used to really enjoy hearing them. Not today. Today he doesn’t want to hear a single one. All of his questions today will be rhetorical even though you’ll answer them. And you’re beginning to get a sense of that. It’s in the casual way that he continues to eat his burger, almost seeming like he’s talking to himself because his body language firmly shuts you out. You slump back into the booth. So, this is how this is going to go? 

A napkin wipes the corners of his mouth messily when mustard oozes from his sandwich. Amber eyes attentively watch his own hand movements. “You think that chancellor’s gonna watch your back?” From his peripheral vision, he watches you freeze. 

Yeah, he’s known about you and Ardyn for a while now; ever since he offered to take you all to the Disc and you rode with him. But today isn’t the day for Gladio to talk about your relationship with the Niff chancellor. He mostly brings it up out of spite. He doesn’t trust himself to talk to you about another secret you’ve been keeping without losing his cool and saying something he’ll really regret. Gladiolus is unaware that he just dodged a bullet. If the two of you had had that talk, he’d be filled with even more regret about this conversation years down the line. 

Jaw clenched, it takes you a moment to regain your composure enough to reply coolly, “I think he’ll help me get close to the emperor and the Crystal, and in the end that’s all that matters. With regard to the chancellor himself, keep in mind that I’m going to make it my goal to stay by his side purely to watch his movements. After everything he’s done, do you _really_ think I’d consider someone like him an ally?” 

Broad shoulders shrug and Gladiolus raises his dark eyebrows dispassionately before taking another bite of his sloppy burger. “The two of you seem to have a lot in common, so I dunno. Maybe you would.” 

Wow. Who knew a comment delivered so damn flippantly with a mouthful of burger could feel almost exactly like an open-handed slap across the face? Gladiolus’ words give you such a shock that you feel a jolt of anxiety right in your fingers and down your spine. It clenches your gut, twists it all up into a million knots. Hand shakes when you reach for your cup and sip your coffee. A couple of deep breaths are taken before you can reaffix your mask and offer the Shield a patient smile. “Gladiolus-” 

“No,” he interrupts, an edge to his tone. That edge dares you to say another word. “I don’t have to make you feel good about this, (y/n). _You’re_ the one who decided to lie. _You're_ the one who kept secrets. _You’re_ the one who decided to go off on a solo mission despite being part of a team. You wanna leave? I’m not stoppin’ you. Do what you think ya gotta do.” 

You look away. Heart hammers in your chest, the diner's walls close in on you. That old feeling is creeping up on you, the one that tells you to flee a confrontation. And for once in a long time, you give in to it. Coffee is polished off and you stand with dignity. “I guess I’ll be seeing you in a few weeks, Gladiolus.” Head bows regally, formally. Amber eyes glance up for a fleeting moment to see that icy face that you wear and the cool smile that graces your lips. “Until then.” 

The Shield watches you leave. You’ve that haughty swagger to your gait that you’ve always had, as if you’re completely unmoved by this exchange, as if his anger doesn’t actually mean anything to you. Again, he feels like a fool at the end of an argument with you. He’d been snippy and irritable and you’d been apologetic and respectful. The waiter comes by to clear the table once more and Gladiolus hands off his unfinished food. That burger sits like a brick in his stomach. 

It’s because of his faith in you that Gladiolus thinks he has the luxury of a lover’s spat. It’s because he believes in you that he doesn’t doubt that the two of you will be seeing each other soon. Gladiolus Amicitia believes that he’s going to see (y/n) Iovita in a short time and he plans on having a great reunion in which there will be a much needed apology for this argument. He doesn’t plan for anything else. He doesn’t plan for your mission to last for years and he certainly doesn’t plan to have “Orion” come visiting him one day to tell him that you died. 

He’ll come back to this day where he let you walk away. He’ll wish he’d looked in your eyes and told you that he was angry, yes, but that he’d be waiting for you with open arms because he still cared. He’ll wish that he hadn’t been so passive aggressive or _aggressive_ at all with you, with Magey. When he smells strong black coffee, his nose burns. An old film plays, there’s a familiar song on the radio, and his eyes go misty. There’s an ache in his chest that will never go away.


	59. 21. Sideways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of “Aubergine” stuff in this chapter and from here on out we’ll have Ardyn peppered all throughout the second half of this fic. He's more of a key player now that you're no longer by Noct's side.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, All About That AU, Unhealthy Friendships, Ardyn is a Peach, Ardyn the Best Frenemy, Blurring Lines, Good Bad Acting, You’re Maybe Too Good at Being Bad, Aaaaaand You Got Played, What Else is New?

**21\. Sideways**

It’s cold here in the place that the daemon takes you, the one it must traverse in order to bring you to different places in the material plane; a realm where lonely and lost spirits reside. Perhaps the daemon doesn’t think you know what this place is? Considering it always politely orders you to keep your eyes shut, you’d hazard a guess that that may be so. The daemon doesn’t want you to see this place for it fears you’ll judge it harshly if you were to ever see where it had once been banished to before you summoned it. Only terrible things live here, after all. So, mustn’t it be a terrible thing as well? 

The creature doesn’t realize that you’ve a nose for this. Corruption? Despair? This place reeks of it. Dark, oppressive, and cold. You assume it’s dark, at least, considering you _do_ have to keep your eyes closed. But even with your eyes screwed shut like a child’s who fears monsters in the dark, you can hear the wails that the daemon thinks you can’t hear. They’re soft, can almost be mistaken for wind. The fact that you feel no wind is what clues you in on what it really is. Add in your experience in the spiritual plane where you frolic with your daemon spirits and, more recently, guided Lunafreya back into the realm of the living, and you have an _inkling_ of what this is. 

_If_ you were to finally open your eyes and betray the daemon’s trust, you would find yourself in a similar dark “room” where you can find the souls of creatures that haven’t ascended. But this room isn’t the same as the one you frequent. This one, in the context of space, would be considered a “back room” relative to the one you’re accustomed to. No one comes here of their own free will. Rather, souls don’t naturally find themselves here on their way to the afterlife. A creature is dragged here to be kept far from the living and even the dead. A creature is taken here for isolation, for punishment. 

And it’s where the daemon has made its home. Millenia of agony, that’s what you can taste on that cold, stale air. The scourge wasn’t the only thing to make what was once a noble creature lose its mind. In this massive, seemingly endless place, those most foolish and desperate enough to strike a bargain and make a contract with Ifrit’s alleged Messenger remain until the Messenger has a use for them. Some wait lifetimes. Some only wait a moment. They wait and wait until that wretched creature turns its ruined visage upon them and uses them up, releasing them not to the afterlife but into oblivion. 

When you’re pushed back into the realm of the living, you couldn’t be happier. The incessant din of crying is taxing and nerve-wracking. Considering who you’re going to meet and where the shadow you step out of is located, being frazzled isn’t exactly optimal. But shadow-walking, or realm jumping, isn’t anything that you’re going to get used to any time soon. Not until you can do it on your own. So for now you have to take a moment to gather yourself while the daemon waits in the shadow of a bookcase. The room you find yourself in is large and decorated conventionally for a high-ranking official’s office; polished furniture, sleek décor, and overall rather impersonal. 

A massive window takes up nearly the entire wall behind a large desk, providing you with a view of imposing buildings of impressive architecture. It’s the only appealing feature of the room, aside from maybe the crimson and charcoal drapes along with a lone plate of cookies on the desk. The heels of your boots click against the white tile floor as you lazily make your way over to the wooden desk. The surface is clear of any papers or framed photos, making it look even more phony than a staged room. Obviously nobody uses this office even though it’s fully furnished with the intention of actually being used. Your nosy self opens a few drawers only to find them empty. 

“You sure this is where the meeting is being held?” You wonder after opening the last drawer to find that, yup, it’s empty too. Not even a damn paperclip or any lint lurks in this desk. Eyes alight on the plate of cookies when you right yourself from your position squatting behind the desk. Even _that_ looks staged since there are a dozen little cookies placed perfectly and distributed equally on the plate. Still... they _do_ look pretty good. “Seems like an unused office, to me,” you add, casually plucking a cookie from the pile and sniffing it. Smells like bitter chocolate and tart berries. 

Fiery yellow eyes stare at you and ruined hands begin to tug irritably on the ends of the daemon’s tatters for robes. “I’m certain. We’re just early,” it snaps. There’s a ripple in the shadow and the creature begins to melt back into the ether. “And now I must be going.” 

“Wait. What?” You nearly choke on the cookie (it’s unfortunately pretty dry, nothing like the ones Ignis makes), crumbs falling from your mouth and onto the once clean floor. Pushing yourself out of your far too casual pose of reclining and being half-sat on a desk that definitely isn’t yours to be putting your butt on, you make to follow the daemon only for it to pin you with a stern frown. Well, this isn’t the first time that the daemon has been moody. Usually when Ardyn is thrown into the mix, the creature gets a little snippy and loses its sense of humor. 

The daemon remains half-melted into the shadows and crosses its arms, closing itself off to the conversation and also to your manipulative puppy eyes that the daemon usually can’t say no to. Oh, what a brooder this damn creature is. Although it still hasn’t mastered the nuance of human expression, it sure has picked up a thing or two from watching you, namely a childish pout that looks a little odd without proper lips. “He doesn’t want me here,” the daemon stiffly informs you. 

And that pumps the brakes on your confidence in this meeting. Ardyn has been harping on you to defect to the imperial side for a while now. When you first met up and actually got to have a substantive conversation, he brought it up and has since needled you about the subject. Even before the Empire dealt a devastating blow to Insomnia, even before you met with Noctis, Ardyn has made it no secret that he has _hated_ your inherited duty. He made you feel like a fool for looking forward to serving Noct. With that in mind, you were under the impression that you had a bit of emotional leverage coming here. 

Not to say you believe Ardyn genuinely cares for your well-being and you wanted to exploit his fondness for you, but you had hoped to capitalize on Ardyn’s obvious distaste for your obligations to Noctis. You had hoped to use the redhead’s hatred against him. All in all, you had _hoped_ that Ardyn would be content enough with you finally acquiescing to his desires that he would be more... _pliable_ and therefore more likely to either tell you his plans (a long shot, you admit), afford you a close enough position to the emperor to bump the old bastard off, or back off a bit from Noct and the guys to give them room to strike back. 

But now you’re hearing that he was so unmoved by your request for a meeting that he actually had made demands of his own. You’ve no leverage _or_ your chance of bending his ear is at least significantly lower than you initially thought. Irritated, you purse your lips and ask, “Why didn’t you tell me he had conditions? This changes things completely.” 

“It hardly seemed relevant at the time and it was an easy enough request to fulfill. He stated his terms explicitly, (y/n), and I agreed to them for the sake of arranging the meeting that you had requested. I don’t break contracts.” The daemon tilts its head of seared flesh and exposed skull. “In what way have things changed? Must you approach him differently now?” 

Considering you don’t know if Ardyn made his request to pick at you or the daemon, you can’t be too demanding now. You can’t push your luck just yet. With a sigh, you wave the daemon off and grumble, “It’s not important right now. I’ll see you soon.” 

“I’ll be waiting. I’m only a shout away.” 

The daemon is given a flat, unimpressed look. “Thanks for making me think I’ll need to do any shouting.” As if you aren’t nervous enough as it is? Especially since you now know dear old Ary has a penchant for killing. Though you’d always suspected that he had the capacity for it, given his temperament, you’d never really thought that he would actually take another person’s life. Now you know better. He’s responsible for Lady Lunafreya’s death (which you undid and mentally give yourself a pat on the back for) and is suspected of whacking that old bastard Talmudge. That one still irritates you. Your revenge was denied. 

A smile that’s too much teeth and an unnervingly stretched mouth is offered up in response to your bland expression. “One never knows with _Ardyn Izunia_.” With that, the daemon fades away into the shadows. 

“Right,” you drawl once you’re left alone. Plopping down on one of the two chairs that sit in front of the desk, you’re forced to wait on Ardyn. You’re unfashionably early, which had bothered the guys since it seemed like you were eager to leave them behind. That “eagerness” was actually anxiety in a fake mustache. Still, you regret how you left things and are already looking forward to returning to your rightful post in two or maybe three weeks, depending on how soon the others make it here to Niflheim. Gosh, you hope it’s sooner rather than later if those cookies are any gauge of imperial cooking standards. Yet there you go eating another. 

By the time the door to the office opens and you hear the distinctive arrogant gait of your childhood friend making his way toward you, you’ve eaten five cookies and are working on your sixth. An anxious eater, there’s a hushed cascade of crumbs that falls to the floor when you elegantly stand to greet Ardyn. Golden eyes flicker down to the mess you made on his office’s perfectly cleaned floor before matching your gaze. He blinks slowly.  The chancellor clears his throat and makes a sweeping gesture with his hand as he makes his way around the desk. “Please, have a seat, dear. Feel free to help yourself to a cookie or six.” It would appear some things never change. 

The two of you sit in tandem, Ardyn smoothing out his coat as he takes his seat across the desk from you but not once does he make to remove the thing from his person. Suppose he doesn’t want to ruin that hodgepodge aesthetic he has going on, what with the striped pants and intricately embroidered (and clashing) vest. For his part, he’s wondering why the hell you’re still dressed like a college mage in that shabby sweater that looks big enough to house all of your secrets. Well, at least you aren’t wearing your Crownsguard jacket. He probably would’ve “accidentally” pushed the plate of cookies off of the table if you had. 

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” When you nod mutely, the chancellor beams and you just _know_ he’s going to give you a hard time of this. Always one to rub salt in a wound, that Ardyn. “Why have you requested this meeting with me? Though I have my suspicions, a man can only hope so much. After all, I cannot fathom why one so devoted to Prince Noctis as yourself would elect to have a civil conversation with _me_ , considering all that has transpired.” 

He sets it up so perfectly and you know he knows how difficult it is for you to refrain from verbally ripping his throat out with your teeth. You want to ask him what he’s directly referring to: The fall of Insomnia? Your mother’s death? Ignis’ blinding? Lady Lunafreya’s death? Noct’s emotional turmoil? Is the list lacking? But it’s low hanging fruit and an obvious trap, to boot. And the strange thing is that your _anger_ is the thing that’s lacking in this moment. Though you want to bring up his past transgressions and shove them in his face, it’s only out of spite and not hatred. It’s out of disappointment and not abhorrence. 

Now you’re suddenly acutely aware of the daemon’s frustration with you. Now the daemon’s almost perverse zeal in revealing to you Ardyn’s murdering nature makes a bit more sense since you’re beginning to get more context. A big clue should’ve been that you didn’t strike the man down the moment he walked into the office. Actually, a _bigger_ clue was that you didn’t do so when you first discovered his link with Niflheim in the wake of your mother’s death. Instead of getting angry, you’d snarked. Instead of thirsting for his blood, you’d pulled away. Instead of holding him accountable for his actions, you’d subconsciously made excuses: This is war and he used to be a friend. 

That’s actually pretty disquieting, now that you think about it. Honestly, was your childhood _so_ lonely that you’d excuse murder and complicity to heinous war crimes? Was it _so_ horrible that you _actually_ delay a moment before mentally affirming to yourself that you’ll continue to excuse him no longer? Besides, he wasn’t even a very good friend. Well, with regard to temperament since he was probably far too prickly to be allowed around people with thin skin. Otherwise... No, you aren’t about to go down memory lane when you have a job to do and an empire to befriend, backstab, and then push down the stairs like you’re in a cheesy soap opera. 

“I’m here to join the Empire, of course.” Like honeyed wine, those words are so sweet from your lips. It’s almost scary how good you are at lying. Delivered with a humble smile and upturned eyes, it could fool almost anyone. Well, anyone who doesn’t know you better. And Ardyn Izunia? Suffice it to say he knows you better. 

The older man rubs his lightly stubbled chin with his forefinger and gently points out, “Yes, well, while I do not doubt the truth of that claim, I’m certain you understand how others might find this sudden turnabout difficult to believe.” 

Reclining back into your stiff chair that actually doesn’t allow you to recline back, you cheekily ask, “Oh? And what do _others_ think I’m here to accomplish?” 

Those golden eyes flash. You’re potentially his greatest asset if he utilizes you correctly and yet Ardyn will always, without fail, find himself resenting your very existence. You’re an alleged god’s attempt to right a wrong that never should’ve transpired in the first place. Even now, looking at you as you smile like the cat that got the cream, oblivious to everything that he rationally knows isn’t your fault, Ardyn feels that old cruelty creeping up. It always sneaks up on him when he’s with you. Never did he ever think he’d be the type to be snide with a _child_. He used to like children, once upon a time. Always thought they said funny things and _you_ said the funniest things. 

When he first met you, you were young enough to be going through that infinitely annoying “fussy” phase where tantrums were frequent. But you were never really tantrum prone. In fact, when he met you, you were sick and dying. In a den of vipers, you were being poisoned. He’d worked to keep you safe. How many threats did he give? How many magisters shoved up against a wall with a blade at their throat and you none the wiser of what was going on just outside your room? And now you’re in another den and you’re old enough to know better. Yes, he’d entreated you. Yes, he’d threatened you. But he’s still annoyed that you’re here. 

Do you expect him to protect you, he wonders? Just like old times? Or are you, more likely, here in the pursuit of vengeance? Here to kill the emperor _and_ him? Not that he’d hold it against you. Actually, if you were to try it right now he might be a little proud. Hurt and irritated, but proud. And it’s as he’s ruminating over how he’s going to answer your casual question without being cruel that he notices it. Staring at you head-on? There’s something about you that’s difficult to stand looking at for too long. There’s something about you that’s uncanny. You look like yourself, yes, there’s nothing about your physical appearance that’s different. But... Oh. 

Now he’s annoyed. Now he doesn’t even feel like bothering to try to tame that wickedness because he knows that the mageling went and took out their own soul. He can only guess that you did it for _Noctis_. Of course you’d do something like that. Since you can’t be there in the flesh for your little prince, you went and gave him the most important part of yourself so that you could still be loyal to him, _enthralled_ to him. What a fool. What a damn _fool_. As Ardyn’s upper lip curls and his teeth are bared in a smile that’s more a snarl, he catches himself. That snarl turns into a polite smile and he asks lightly, “Do you think to kill the emperor?” 

The moment and I mean the _exact moment_ that he asks you that question, you know he’s tipping you off to the fact that this conversation isn’t exactly private. Because you and your dear pal Ary? It can never be said that the two of you are blunt talkers. Almost infuriatingly coy, you reveal yourselves to each other through subtle facial or body cues and a clever manipulation of the spoken word. Intonation can never be trusted and statements can rarely be taken at face value. After spending years together, the two of you have developed your own language; a language that relies on sarcasm and the type of distrust people develop when they’ve been wronged all their lives. 

It’s within this language that it can be argued that you and Ardyn trust each other. You’re the only ones on the planet who speak it and really know it. Others may be able to glean some truth or hidden meaning in the snark and biting wit or in the eyes that flash like lightning, but only you and Ardyn can hold a conversation like this. And you know that he would never approach you or you him with some juvenile, “No, _you_ tell me your dark intentions, ulterior motives, and murder plots first!” like some perverse adaptation of lovestruck fools talking on the phone with each other. 

Your smile is so bright it could rival the sun. “Actually, no. Believe it or not, but my ultimate goal in joining Niflheim isn’t to harm the emperor. I’m seeking to preserve my family’s-” bullshit “- goal of directing the Spire of Duscae to bring it to its full potential. My time in the employ of Lucis’ royal family has really opened my eyes to the fact that it was the boy’s intention of keeping me wholly subservient to his whims as he not once mentioned or asked me about my plans for my family’s college. I’d always aspired to be a scholar and not a petulant boy’s footstool. Being his gofer hardly afforded me the time to pursue my own endeavors.” 

Gods, that’s some vile word vomit. How exhausting it was to try and hit every buzzword in one breath. You hope that in channeling every absurd magister you’ve had the misfortune of working with, that whoever it is that’s listening in on this conversation bought the ruse. ‘Cause dammit if you didn’t sell it hard like the majority of your income relies on commission. Talking in such a simpering tone is something you’ve never done in Ardyn’s presence before, though, and you’re almost embarrassed. Plus, it was kinda gross to call Noct a “boy” that many times. Was that too on the nose? 

“And you hope to indulge those scholarly pursuits whilst in service to the Empire?” Ardyn wonders, playing along with your little charade. That cruel streak is smothered, for now. He’ll ignore the terrible thing that you’ve done to yourself in order to ensure that he can have you in his employ. Though he _could_ realistically take you on the same way he does mercenaries without Iedolas’ say-so, that wouldn’t further a more grand scheme of his to rip you from your friends’ arms and dangle you in front of Noctis’ face. It would be easier to argue a case for your innocence if you _don’t_ bend your knee to the emperor and kiss a ring that you’ll enchant specifically for him. 

Because Ardyn is going to have you do both of those things. Humiliation and degradation? You haven’t really experienced either until you commit to playing spy- an _unsanctioned_ Lucian spy. And so adept at wearing masks, the unofficial capacity that you work in will work against you. Because you aren’t officially a spy, who can really say that what you’re doing is an act? Especially when, after Noctis is gone, you stop reporting in? Especially when, after it begins to feel like the relationships that you worked so hard to build with your friends are collapsing, you stop risking your life to visit them? Then come the grumblings of “double agent.” 

What you initially believe to be your greatest act of bravery is going to become the albatross that you wear about your neck. It will weigh you down and choke you. It will bring with it an unbearable stink of betrayal that polite company can’t tolerate. Yet you put it on with a smile on your face and wear it proudly when you have company, or during the rare occurrence that you have company, anyway. And it all starts off with a wonderful recording in which you lightheartedly smear the Crown Prince of Lucis, his friends, and the kingdom that you’ve called home for all of your life. 

Another smile seals your fate. A charming chuckle makes this hard to hear even though your friends know you’re acting. “Why, I hope he’s a man who can _appreciate_ the luxuries that arcane study provides. Valuable enchantments to increase one’s strength and health, that sort of thing. My previous employer believed that being of the line of the Kings, he didn’t need what I had to offer. Such an arrogant thing, though I suppose one can’t really expect much else from someone who was coddled and told he was special all his life. Of course you know my powers as the Mage are _far_ superior with regard to endurance and versatility.” 

“Yes, indeed. In fact, that was why I had first proposed your hiring to the emperor. However, about the prince,” Ardyn steeples his fingers below his chin and leans back casually in his nice office chair that’s probably been sat on twice, this meeting included, “I believe there’s a rumor spreading that the Fulgurian, your family’s god, gave him his blessing.” 

Now you’re really in the thick of it, aren’t you? That subtle smirk tells you what Ardyn is after and you’re going to rise to meet the challenge. How far are you willing to go to make the imperials believe that you’ve truly defected even if your redheaded pal knows better? What are you willing to lower yourself to say and do? And of course you adapt to meet the requirements you need to survive in this new environment, just as Ary always knew you would. You know that you’re going to have to write the guys about this conversation if only for your own peace of mind. They’ll be grateful to you after this meeting gets plastered on every paper and covered on every news channel. 

You cluck your tongue and primly correct, “It was the _Oracle_ who bore the brunt of the burden with regard to the prince’s pursuit of gaining the Astrals’ blessings and if you’ll recall, my family line _is_ the covenant that Ramuh made with the prince’s family. That covenant? It’s broken. This is a sinking ship, chancellor, and I don’t want my family’s legacy to get burned to the ground all because that boy was too proud.” 

“A sinking ship, you say?” The cunning snake tilts his head with an innocent smile. “In what way, Arch-Mage (y/n)?” 

Gods, you know this is going to be a soundbite when he throws that damn title on the table. But you go for the jugular anyway. You pick at a scab, needle the doubts that some Lucians have of the so-called bratty Crown Prince. “His advisors have already been harmed because of his folly. One of them is blinded and the other was already bested by Niflheim’s own High Commander for the sake of a _car_. The prince’s campaign is a joke. He runs about without a care in the world while his people _suffer_. He couldn’t even protect the Oracle after all she had done for his sake. How many people have to die for his ego?” 

When you were a child, you lived for Ardyn’s smiles of approval. But as you sit here, feeling mentally exhausted even though this conversation was maybe fifteen minutes with contemplative pauses and intense staring, the chancellor’s smile of approval doesn’t make you feel on top of the world. You don’t feel proud or accomplished. You feel beat down and gross. And Ary _so_ loves to rub salt in the wound because he waits until now, after all you’ve said, to inform you that you won’t even be posted here in Niflheim. No. You’re being sent back to the Spire of Duscae to oversee graduation where for the first time in history those mages will be sent to the _imperial_ army. 

The Empire now has a recording of you seemingly speaking to yourself and then a solid ten minutes of you just noisily eating dry cookies before the “juicy” part begins. Meeting the emperor, _alone_ , was never truly in the cards for you, as they say. That gnawing vengeance will never know satisfaction. And tomorrow? If the imperials find your discussion with Ardyn to be satisfactory and, _oh_ , they will, you’ll go with the chancellor to meet with your new ruler where you will bend the knee and provide him with a token of your fealty. Then you will return to your post in Duscae where business will resume as usual. 

What was your mission again? To keep an eye on Ardyn and scope out the area? What was your ulterior motive? To assassinate the emperor for that sweet, sweet satisfaction of avenging your mother and your homeland? It almost seems like the redhead knew all of that, for he smiles so sweetly as he delivers this news that completely blows apart your little quest. The smile reaches his eyes but the sweetness in it curdles and turns bitter in those golden depths. Its kind is mirrored on your own face at once again being so expertly played by the serpent. Reaching forward, you grab another cookie and take an audible bite. 


	60. 22. Somewhere (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, routes are significantly different. Because they're all less than 2,300 words, I would actually kinda suggest reading each one to get more insight into stuff. It will just fill in some blanks about how you're doing since this chapter focuses on each guy's experience. ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Angst, Some Fluff, Prompto is the Best, Mage Weirdness, Soul Weirdness, Give Noct a Break, He's Been Through A Lot, He Needs a Nap, But Not a 10-Year One!, A Mischievous Daemon, A Lonely Prompto, A Sweater, Rule Breaking, Struggling With Emotions, Strange Dreams, Lack of Closure

**22\. Somewhere**

**Noctis**

“He’s not himself and he’s been through a lot,” Ignis had murmured to Gladiolus one night. “It’s best to leave him be for now." 

Noctis slouches as he waits with the others for the train to Cartanica to be ready to be boarded. He’d overheard Ignis telling Gladiolus that. It was meant as a defense, to shield Noct from the Shield, but the prince still found himself taking offense. He knows he hasn’t been in his right mind. First came his dad’s death and... Somehow, he thought he might grieve Luna in the same way. All fire and motivation to seek revenge. But it hasn’t been the same. Not by a long shot. 

He feels sluggish. Sometimes he doesn’t want to get up in the morning, more so than usual. That drive to get up and do things, to go after the Empire, and now to seek revenge against Ardyn? It isn’t there. And the strange thing is, he can’t even really say that he _feels_ sad. Doesn’t feel much of anything anymore. It’s as if everything is dulled. All of his senses and emotions have had their volume turned down to a low murmur that he can hardly notice. 

But one thing he _does_ notice is when Prompto comes up beside him and gently smacks his arm. Noct glances over, catching the blond’s eye, and Prompto jumps at the opportunity that that limited eye contact provides him to ask, “You doin’ okay, dude?” 

On the face of it? No. 

However, Noctis has always been careful about Prompto’s feelings. Funny, that. Here he is, wallowing in a pit of despair before heading to another tomb, and he still tries to be _somewhat_ polite. The thing is, Noct isn’t oblivious to all that his friends are doing for him. He isn’t blind to their sacrifices. After all, Prompto doesn’t even _have_ to be here. It’s not his job. He doesn’t have some special position in Noct’s company like Specs, Gladio, or (y/n). There’s no reason for him to risk it all on the run from the imperials. 

Yet, here he is. 

The lithe blond leans against the wall at the station with his raven-haired best friend. The sun is already so low in the sky, making the air warm. That warmth is lost on Noct and the prince sighs before tilting his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. One thing that he’s hesitant to admit to anyone is that he misses you and he’s worried about you. A dumb thing to hesitate about, but it feels silly in comparison to everything that’s happened. To worry about the capable mage? Nonsense. 

If he’d vocalize this worry, though, he’d find himself in good company. The blond beside him has been a bundle of nerves ever since they all got your first and _only_ text. It was a group message because you weren’t sure if you could count on Noct to reach out to the guys if you only messaged _him_. In the text, you told them this would be your only contact via phone and to be ready for some unflattering news to break with regard to your “defection.” None of it surprised Noct. 

He could see the displeasure on Gladio and Specs’ face when a recording of you trash talking him ended up on TV and the radio. But Noct couldn’t find it in himself to get upset by you doing exactly what you said you’d do. Actually, he found it kinda funny. That put-on voice of yours and that fake chuckle you often use to irritate Gladio when the Shield makes a joke at your expense and you turn it around on him? To people who don’t know you, the prince admits you might sound like an asshole. And, well, you did. 

Only a few days have passed since that recording of your “secret meeting” with the chancellor came out and people are already dragging you through the mud. It’s about 50/50 with the people in favor of you sounding like loony conspiracy theorists with their claims that you’re probably taking the Empire for a ride- not realizing that they’re right on the money. Social media has become a no-go for escapism for the prince in that way. He can’t go to anything other than gaming sites without seeing pictures of you. 

Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt’s arcane advisor, (y/n) Iovita: First arcane advisor in Niflheim’s history, youngest Arch-Mage to gain control of the Spire, and the most controversial figure for the emperor to put in a position of any sort of power in _years_. Noct admits that you look really nice in that photo that seems almost inescapable, the one where you’re kneeling before the emperor and kissing a ring on his finger. Decked out in gilded robes of gold, ivory, black, and crimson, you’re a vision. 

That hat of yours with the conical crown and wide brim would look ridiculous on anyone else but you, Noct concedes. Somehow, you pull it off. That whole imposing getup of yours suits you. Not once does he think that fancy clothes and empty words translate into you _actually_ being a Niff. Which is a problem. Because Noct kinda wishes he had some doubts about your loyalty, ‘cause that would give him another explanation for why you haven’t contacted them all via letter like you said you would. 

As it stands, the only other conclusion that he can draw is that you’re in dire straits. 

After Ignis and Gladiolus explained your situation to Lucian higher-ups, Specs has been getting updates from the likes of Monica and Cor about _actual_ spy intel with regard to the Spire and the goings on in Niflheim. No one has seen you in _days_. You were paraded around to mixed reactions from the Niffs (some of whom considered you a terrorist, what with your background in sacking imperial bases in the Lucian countryside) and then you just vanished. The curtain was drawn on that sideshow. 

With regard to the Spire, word on the street is that that’s where you’re being deployed. It was something you’d hinted at in your message, saying you wouldn’t be able to stay in Niflheim, and it was confirmed via intel. The college’s usual guards have been replaced by magitek soldiers. 

That once “politically neutral” institution is now firmly and blatantly pro-Empire with such a change. It’s worrisome. When Noct first heard that you were being shuttled back to the Spire, he’d hoped that would mean you’d be safe. 

Well, _safer_ than being in Niflheim. The raven-haired royal knows about the Spire’s spotty history and gleaned enough about the treatment you faced from your brief chats about the college. He’s confident that you can take on pernicious arcane pundits better than a swarm of battle-hardened warriors. But now you’ve gone off of the radar and he doesn’t know what that means. Specs makes it a point to constantly say how you need to be careful and that it makes sense that you wouldn’t send frivolous messages. 

Doesn’t keep Noct from _wanting_ frivolous messages. 

Noct has lost enough people. He’s lost his dad and his childhood friend. He doesn’t want to have to add you to that list. And it’s times where he’s forced to face his feelings that he wishes he’d given you a harder time about leaving. Instead of just silently letting you go, he wishes he’d stomped out that fear of lording over you and _ordered_ you, as your rightful king, to stay. Sure, he would’ve regretted it. But at least your safety wouldn’t be in question. At least people wouldn’t be assassinating your character. 

His only solace can be found in the strange, effervescent warmth that tingles in his chest. At night, when all is quiet, if he closes his eyes and concentrates on that warmth he swears he can see you. You stand alone in the darkness, always just out of reach. Your eyes are always closed, arms crossed over your chest, hands resting on your shoulders. It’s an odd position. It reminds him of a sarcophagus. When he talks, you don’t hear him. Or at least you don’t react. But he takes comfort in seeing you. 

However, the haze remains. He continues to drift through the days and nights; time blurring into something that he finds it difficult to keep track of. And Noct is vaguely aware of the “mood” of his friends as a result. The burning animosity at his back is typically Gladiolus. The quiet reservation with patient reminders to eat and wake up comes from Ignis. Prompto is like sunshine, but not the blinding kind. It’s dappled and comforting and everywhere. Right now, it’s to his left, patiently waiting. 

“I’m fine.” 

Noctis’ voice cracks from disuse, the biggest indicator that he’s _not_ fine. But it’s not as if anyone is going to argue with him while he’s grieving. ‘Cause who does that? Everyone knows that he feels guilty and _so do they_. The freshness of that wound, however, is beginning to raise eyebrows and make resentments fester. The wound is scabbing over and yet Noct remains inactive, disaffected. His arcane advisor threw themselves to the wolves when the wound was still bleeding and Noct still sulks. 

His friends have started talking and though Noct hears them sometimes, like with the minor spat between Specs and Gladio, he’s unmoved. 

The problem is that he can’t find the energy to do anything, but that’s coming across like he doesn’t have the energy to _care_. It can never, ever be argued that Noctis Lucis Caelum doesn’t care about his friends. _Never_. But this prolonged depression raises doubts. He wasn’t the only one to lose Lady Lunafreya. The _world_ lost her and people are picking themselves up and continuing to rebel against the Empire. And what example is Noctis setting? 

It’s nothing that he hasn’t thought of before. Thus, the guilt grows. He feels as though failing Luna means he doesn’t even have what it takes to save his kingdom. If he couldn’t even save _one person_ , then _what else_ does that say? What’s he supposed to think? And it’s all very circular and unproductive _and he knows that_. Beside him, Prompto watches on. Blue eyes critically appraise the way his best friend’s face remains still and without emotion. He knows that unproductive depression slump well. 

A history of battling low moods makes him especially sensitive to others’. The empathetic blond has been mindful of giving his pal space but not _too_ much, since he doesn’t want the guy to feel isolated. Prompto has gone through great pains to be sure that Noctis is aware that he’s being supported without feeling suffocated or unable to express (or not express) himself how he sees fit. Right now, he knows that the bleak future and your absence are things that are weighing heavily on the brunet’s mind. 

And while he can’t carelessly promise a happy ending to this quest of theirs, he can at least do what he can to put his best friend’s mind at ease for just a little while. 

Casually, Prom bumps Noct’s arm again and says, “We have a lot to look forward to. Just think about it: We’re going to another tomb and we’ll be closer to launching an attack on the Empire.” There are a lot of gaps in that description and the blond cuts out how much work is actually going to be involved, but, hey, this is a pep talk. “And we can meet up with (y/n), too. They won’t have to watch over Ardyn or pretend to be with the imperials anymore. It’ll be great to have ‘em back.” 

“You sound pretty confident that everything’s gonna work out.” 

Prompto freezes. That’s the most he’s heard out of Noct in days. He smiles, shakes Noct’s arm. “We’ll _make it_ work out. And you know (y/n) won’t let us fail. They’ll lecture the universe into doin’ right by us,” Prompto jokes. “Right now, they’re probably giving the imperials hell. I can only imagine the death stares. (y/n)’s _really_ good at those. Maybe too good. Imagine what it would’ve been like if they’d grown up in Insomnia. We probably wouldn’t have been able to go to the arcade as often.” 

“(y/n)’s pretty strict,” Noct admits, slowly opening his eyes to the late afternoon sun. A dust devil blows by along the train’s platform, making a few people pull their shirt up over their mouth and nose. The thought of you and what you’re putting yourself through for everyone begins to ignite something in Noct. To hear Prompto speak like this, with that soft but confident intonation, lifts a bit of the haze he’s been stumbling around in. 

“And they aren’t alone,” Prompto reminds him, blue eyes shining bright. “They have their familiar.” 

“Yeah.” 

The blond grabs Noct’s arm and tugs him close to his side, a wide grin on his face. “And you have us.” 

Looking at his best friend, Noct gives him a soft smile and nods his head. “Yeah.” And just for a little bit, Noct feels better. 

* * *

**Prompto**

“Can’t they, I dunno, _call_ every once in a while?” Prompto asks maybe the only person willing to listen to his almost incessant whining: Ignis. The blond hasn’t been taking this separation well. He’d been all stoic for your benefit when you left, but now he’s getting anxious. First came a text from you, hastily typed and with many errors. You’d said not to contact you directly from here on out and that you’d only risked a text to warn everyone of an impending voice recording of you dunking on Noct. 

Though Prom had initially laughed at your use of slang, as he always does, and although he was relieved to be contacted by you, your message had made him uneasy. It was only then that the gravity of the situation really hit him: You’re playing spy. And from his rather slanted view of spies based on pop culture and not from actual military sources, espionage is risky business. More risky than traveling the countryside and sacking imperial bases while said imperials hunt them all down. 

You’re really in the thick of it, aren’t you? 

And then, after the text, came the foretold recording. It was every bit as bad as you’d hinted. The sharpshooter would wager saying Noct got “dunked on” would be a bit of an understatement. Six, you pretty much crucified the guy by laying the blame for Lady Lunafreya’s death and Iggy’s blinding at his feet. It was painful to hear you talk in that cold way of yours, to hear those mirthless chuckles. If Prompto closes his eyes when the recording is played on TV (and, oh, it’s played to death), he can see your simmering, unblinking gaze. 

But simply _imagining_ you sitting in front of him isn’t enough. 

It will never, _ever_ be enough. That fact alone makes the blond feel as if he’s some horribly codependent whiner. Because he understands why you’re playing spy and why the others are allowing you to do so. It’s part of your duty. It’s an unconventional and totally not planned part of your duty, but it’s a sort of... extension. Like a surprise deck being added on to an already very nice house. Except the deck isn’t exactly stable and might collapse at any moment, killing you.

Yeah. _That’s_ what your spy duties are like. 

What makes matters worse now is that they’re all headed to Cartanica while you’re headed back to Duscae. Some intel came in with regard to the Spire after Ignis informed the proper Lucian military channels of your mission. It wasn’t good. Ever since the news broke of your defection and the Empire started using your face as propaganda against the rebel movement, magitek soldiers have been posted outside of the Spire of Duscae. The once politically neutral institution is now firmly pro-Empire. 

The cherry on top of this mess of a cake is that you haven’t written letters for your familiar to deliver like you said you would. 

There was the one text and now it’s been dead silent on your end for days. Word on the street is you’re being interrogated in Niflheim. Whatever advantage the Niffs thought they had by photographing you kissing an enchanted ring on Aldercapt’s finger and plastering that nauseating pic across every front page of the papers that are in the Empire’s pocket is almost being undone by such a rumor. ‘Cause dammit if the imperials didn’t make a big scene about (y/n) Iovita being the first arcane advisor in Niflheim. 

Prompto can take some satisfaction in knowing that they shot themselves in the foot by parading you around and then suddenly drawing you out of the public eye. It raises questions, makes people doubt if you’re actually a traitor or if you were captured and forced to say and do those things. But it’s the “suddenly taking (y/n) out of public” thing that’s really bothering him, coupled with your silence. He also knows that the more people doubt your sincerity as a defector, the less chance your mission has of going off without a hitch. 

He just wants you to call. Is that too much to ask? To write a letter to tell everyone- to tell _him_ \- that you’re okay. Prompto knows that your mission was to get in the emperor’s good graces so you could locate the Crystal as well as keep an eye on Ardyn, and that’s gone belly up. He knows that might be embarrassing to you. All he’s asking for is a word. Just one. It can be anything to tell him if you’re okay or if you’re in danger. Literally anything. Honestly, the guy is desperate here. He’d even accept “dork” and he’d know you’re fine. 

“It’s too much of a risk,” Ignis rebukes, ripping Prompto from his frenzied thoughts. Though the brunet is also concerned by your lack of contact, he placates himself by being rational. You did, after all, say that communication would be a risk. You are, after all, under a lot of scrutiny from _both_ sides. That risky mission of yours is known by only a select few Lucians. To the rest of the world, your intentions are still shrouded in mystery. Are you actually with the Empire? Are you a prisoner of war? One discovered text, an overheard call, a letter, could be your undoing. 

There’s an underlying, unsaid fear that Ignis always tries to snuff out in the younger man. He’d heard how nicely you’d been dressed in that infamous photo with the emperor. In crimson, gold, white, and black. You were wearing a robe with an intricate pattern. Ignis doesn’t know what the pattern depicted, since Gladiolus wasn’t very good at describing it, but it must have been extravagant. You donned a wide-brimmed hat of the same make. It looked “like a mage hat, I dunno.” 

No expense was spared for the ceremony that was to be an attempt at mimicking an Iovita’s blessing of the Ring of Lucii. Your visage is splashed on newspapers, posters, and in news reports, all in support of the Empire. And now you’re gone. Vanished. All that remains are those images. That fear that Ignis always hears in Prompto Argentum’s voice, when it goes a little high, when he talks about you and wonders when you’re finally going to contact them all and jokes that he’s going to scold you when you do, is that you’re _dead_. 

The fear is that the Empire got what they needed out of you. They got a face. They got a message that even the most devoted member to the Lucian cause admitted that the Lucian side is losing and that Noctis Lucis Caelum isn’t worthy of sitting on the throne of _any_ kingdom, let alone a broken one. They got soundbites, photos, a kiss on a silly ring. They bled you out and hung you up to dry. _That’s_ the fear. _That’s_ the strange little noise in Prompto’s voice that only Ignis Scientia seems to hear. 

Pausing in his nervous pacing on the train station platform, Prompto turns to look at his friend. It’s strange how their friendship has grown over this journey. Before, he just had Noct and there _might_ have been a good argument to say that Ignis and Gladiolus tolerated the guy’s presence. That might’ve been generous, though. Now? Everything is changing. Through tragedy and sacrifice, long days and dark nights, they’ve bonded. And Prompto has to say that even when he’s most afraid, he’s thankful to have these guys by his side. 

The time is drawing near to board the train to Cartanica. Prompto worries that if you’ve any letters to send, your familiar won’t be able to reach them all in an enclosed space. How will you contact them if you refuse to use a phone? How will they know that you’re okay? The sunlight is warm but the shutterbug feels too hot with anxious energy. It’s as he’s working himself up to another panic-attack that it hits him: A paper airplane right to the back of the head. The blond jolts and spins around, fumbling with the thing. 

“What was that?” Ignis wonders, brow furrowed. All he hears is erratic fumbling and panicked breathing. “Are you all right, Prompto?” 

"Ye-Yeah, it’s-” Prom is about to say that it’s probably Gladio’s doing, though the Shield isn’t anywhere on the platform to board the train, when he unfolds the paper to see familiar handwriting. All at once he’s hit with melancholy and relief. Hands tremble. Blue eyes quickly scan the contents of the letter and then do it all over again just to be sure he understands. “(y/n) is in the Spire. They said they’re gonna try to cause as many distractions as possible. Their exact words are: ‘Be a thorn in _at least_ the chancellor’s side.’ ‘At least’ is underlined.” 

While Ignis expresses his feelings of reassurance which are echoed by Gladiolus when the Shield arrives with Noct in tow, Prompto finds that he’s rather conflicted. All this time he’s been waiting for a message from you. He would’ve been satisfied with one word, or so he thought. But instead of one word he got one paragraph and instead of feeling reassured like the others he feels dread. Because Ardyn Izunia doesn’t seem like the type of person who will abide someone deliberately trying to be a thorn in his side. The guy killed Lady Lunafreya, after all. 

But now you’re going solo and purposefully rattling the coeurl’s cage. Hell, you didn’t even ask for them all to go and fetch you so you can continue on this quest _with them_. Prom is sure Noct wouldn’t mind a detour. You didn’t even ask how they all were. Haven’t you been worried? You didn’t do a lot of things with a whole piece of paper and the luxury to write out an entire paragraph of nothing. Those big blue eyes blink down at that letter of nothing as Prompto struggles with what he’s really feeling: Disappointment. 

“Good on Magey for keepin’ up with this. I had my doubts, but-” 

Prompto can’t stand to listen to Gladio sing your praises as you risk your life, so he steps away. The days are growing shorter and the nights longer. It’s what Prom blames his increasingly somber mood on. He likes to pretend that it isn’t because he misses you dearly and feels like he’s lost a limb ever since you left. Because Prompto Argentum, ardent defender and best friend of Noctis Lucis Caelum, can’t get blue just ‘cause the love of his life is out being noble and putting themselves in danger for a worthy cause. 

He’s at the end of the platform and his nose burns and his eyes sting. That letter gets crumpled up in his fist. It’s as he’s telling himself not to get hung up on thinking about the many sleepless nights he’s endured and to just be thankful that you’re okay when something nudges his leg. Startled, the blond looks down and blinks in surprise. At his feet sits a vulture. Now, under normal circumstances, the blond would scream and stumble back at the sight of a wild animal in such close proximity to him. But... at this point, he’s used to your familiar. 

It might be a dangerous desensitization for Prompto to no longer have the instinct to flee at the sight of swiftly approaching or oddly behaving wildlife, but it’s all your familiar’s fault. And that pink head being cocked so strangely with a deviously glimmering brown eye leaves no question in the blond’s mind that this is your familiar. The presence of a neatly folded lavender cardigan at its feet also lends itself to that conclusion. When Prompto sees _that_ , he swears someone, most likely a ghost, punched him in the gut. 

Carefully, he bends down and the vulture moves back. When Prom reaches for the cardigan, the vulture moves its head quickly as if it means to nip at his fingers with its hooked beak and Prompto exclaims in surprise before scowling. He swears the thing smiles before backing off once more. Giving the bird a contemptuous side eye, Prompto swipes the cardigan up and holds it to his chest. Fingers dig into that itchy wool. Eyes flutter shut at the scent of you. He swallows hard and buries his face in your lavender cardigan as the creature watches on. 

“Thank you.” 

* * *

**Ignis**

The waiting is the hardest part.

Ignis likes to pretend that he’s a patient person, but in reality he’s always had a difficult time waiting. Perhaps his greatest skill is pretending to be patient since he’s got the world convinced that he’s the most patient man alive? With learning to cook and fight, he’d wanted to be an expert quickly. But that’s fairly normal. The desire to be _good_? Ignis Scientia has always tempered that impatience of his to allow himself to grow and learn at a sufficient pace. He’s never been one to cut corners. 

But that’s with stuff that he had the power to control. His own progress was in his hands. And there’s no controlling (y/n) Iovita. Not that he’d _want_ to, but he _does_ wish you’d fulfill that promise of yours and write them all sooner rather than later. However, no matter how hard he wishes for it, you haven’t. You’ve only texted them all once, breaking your own rule with regard to communication, and that was _days_ ago. You’d texted to say you were going to be sent to the Spire and to look out for a recording. 

It was such a vague message that nobody knew what to make of it but nobody wanted to message you back and risk your safety. In that moment, as the others all pondered the meaning behind your words, Ignis had felt so frustrated that he couldn’t see the words himself, as if he might be able to glean more in that way. A prideful thought. That he’s an expert on you? That he knows you better than all three of his friends combined and could see a hidden meaning in your text? How presumptuous. How correct. 

He’d been overwhelmingly frustrated. That old impatience rears up and has to be combated daily. Every missed step, every stumble. Unable to drive or properly cook, Ignis feels as much the same as you did when you failed Lunafreya after promising her you’d keep her safe. Putting one’s worth into one’s utility never fails to prove unhelpful and counterproductive. It never fails to completely raze one’s self-confidence down to the ground the second failure must be confronted. 

He wants to serve Noctis and you want to save everyone. Neither of you seem to be getting your way. 

But while you pack your things and run, he remains. A bitterness has grown in your absence, in the waiting. A foolishness, a hopeful foolishness wonders if your great plan will ever come to fruition. For the longer you stay gone and the longer nothing changes, the more your absence seems pointless. Especially in the wake of the recording you’d vaguely hinted at. The one where you used _his_ injury against Noctis. The one where you did a bang up job of blurring the line between friend and foe. 

Saying goodbye to you feels like it happened decades ago. In such a short time, you’ve changed but nothing else has. The world wallows and you kiss the emperor’s hand. Nights grow longer and you dress in finery. Ignis is glad that he was unable to see the photo everyone gawked over- the one where you’re knelt before the emperor in a mockery of the ritual blessing of the Ring of Lucii that your ancestors have performed for generations. 

Gladio had huffed and Ignis’ jaw had clenched. 

Another recording made the rounds. It was your elegant voice professing fealty to the emperor of Niflheim. A solemn oath delivered with finesse and grace. There was no soda to be knelt in in the throne room, that’s for sure. Ignis is certain the room didn’t reek of hot asphalt and diner grease. He’s sure you were a vision. And although he was also positive that it was all part of your great act, the bitterness grew and grows still. Because you should be _here_. 

He feels very much out of his depth, like he’s drowning. Drowning with a patient smile on his face and with poise and grace. _Im_ patience. He wants to be _good_ at being blind. Because all of his duties prior to his injury required a sharp eye. And what does he have now? Prompto Argentum and Gladiolus Amicitia? Though he appreciates their help immensely, he knows that he can’t rely on them forever just to be able to perform the most basic duties of his job. 

That mindfulness is what helps the brunet refrain from being too upset with you and your silence. He knows there are contributing factors to his low mood, that it’s a combination of anxiety and frustration with himself and his own situation. This can’t be easy for you, either. To be surrounded by enemies? To be called names? Gladio even told him that on TV someone spat on you when the imperials were having you paraded around. That made him feel ill. He wanted to hold you then. 

He wants to hold you _now_. 

Angry as he may be, he still cares about you. Even when he thinks you’ve abandoned them all, that affection will linger for years and years. In this moment, though, he doesn’t even know if you _have_ years. After he and Gladiolus apprised Cor Leonis of your situation when the man came by to inquire if your treachery was true, Ignis has been getting updates on the situation in both Niflheim and the Spire. From legitimate Lucian spies, the word is that there’s been activity at the arcane institution. 

The college’s usual security detail has been replaced with magitek soldiers. It’s as if the college is being prepped for something. Is it for your arrival? Nobody knows because after the imperials got done showing you off, they quickly drew the curtains on that act. No one has seen or heard from Arch-Mage (y/n) Iovita in _days_. There’s a rumor floating around that the emperor only wanted to use you to lower Lucian morale and now that he’s somewhat accomplished that goal, he’s had you killed. 

Another rumor says you’re imprisoned and being tortured. 

Ignis wrings his hands on his lap, sitting stiffly in his seat. As the train bumps along, preparing to get them all to yet another royal tomb and roll through Tenebrae, you break your own rule for Ignis. You find that you’ll break several and then some for the sake of Ignis Scientia, even going so far as to put yourself in a “cosmic debt” to try and do right by him. If you think for a second that he’ll be grateful to you for _that_ , you’ve got another thing coming. 

There’s a buzzing in his pocket that rips Iggy from his grim musings. The brunet’s brow furrows and he pats his pocket before fishing his phone out. From memory, he swipes and answers, “Hello?” 

“It’s good to hear your handsome voice again, Scientia,” a breathy voice chuckles over the phone, turning his blood into fire in his veins. Several things happen at once: His mouth goes dry and his heart leaps, hand shakes before he can still it, and beside him Prompto shifts in his seat. 

“(y/n)? (y/n) why are you-” Iggy’s about to scold you when you cut him off. 

“Not now. My phone isn’t bugged _yet_ but this has to be kept short, though I know you love to get all longwinded on me.” He can hear the smile in your voice, it makes his heart squeeze painfully. “I’m headed to the Spire. The emperor is apparently afraid of me or something and would much rather have me dead, but the chancellor must still have a use for me. So, I intend on serving you lot from that post.” 

Just as he suspected, the Spire was getting a security overhaul for your sake. It’s a relief but it’s also troubling. Last he heard, there’s been a lot of air traffic in Duscae. “What are you going to do?” 

On your end, you aren’t in a cozy train but rather holed up in a tiny restroom in a Niff airship. The place is crawling with soldiers but everyone typically gives you a wide berth. You think that might be due to the stupid robes and doofy hat that you have a sneaking suspicion Ardyn had a hand in designing for you. Honestly, you wouldn’t put it past the guy. He always said a mage needed a big hat. You just wish the wardrobe change as Arch-Mage didn’t call for the trashing of your sweater. 

“I’m going to be as obnoxious as I always intended on being if I ever became the Arch-Mage of the Spire. I have a list of ridiculous requests as long as my arm and at the top of it is a chocobo. _My_ chocobo,” you huff a laugh, voice low. “I’m sure the emperor will shit bricks once I start firing people and noble families begin banging on his door. They’re so entitled that they won’t think twice about throwing their titles and money around. I’ve heard noble uprisings can put a lot of pressure on a ruler.” 

Positive that he has all eyes on him now, Ignis asks, “And if you make yourself so obnoxious that he really _does_ decide to have you killed?” 

“That won’t be a problem. I have a few contingency plans up my sleeve, one of which being- Oh, shit! Where’s my cyanide pill?” 

“ _(y/n)_.” 

The pure acid in his tone makes you wince. Adjusting your stance, you bump into the toilet and frown. “Okay. I’ll admit that joke was in poor taste.” You pause. “Don’t worry about me, Iggy. I’ll surround myself with allies or people who are too cowardly to take a life... right after I harangue the chancellor into getting the damned magitek soldiers off of my lawn.” 

“Where are you now? Where are you calling me from?” 

“The toilets,” is your flat reply. You’d always been lectured by your mother about how gross it is for people to be on their phone while in the toilets. But it’s not like you’re _using_ the toilet. You’re just pretending to while you whisper into a phone that’s sure to be confiscated soon while two guards wait outside. Someone’s gonna get reprimanded for not checking to see if you had a phone all this time. “This is a fancy imperial airship and I actually didn’t know it had a toilet until one of my guards left to use it.” 

“How many guards do you have?” 

“The imperials like to make me feel special. I typically have at least six. I’m like a celebrity here. Y’know, I think I might actually be out of your league now. _Oh_ , how the turntables,” you chuckle softly, pulling at the brim of your hat nervously when you hear movement just beyond the restroom door. 

“You’re absolutely ridiculous,” Iggy scolds, though he can feel his lips quirking up into a smile. It feels like the first time he’s smiled in weeks. To hear you joke again? That immature banter? It’s almost like you’re here again. “But at least you sound in better spirits than when you left.” 

“I’m sorry for leaving like that.” It’s said so abruptly, voice hard like ice. Ignis frowns and is about to reassure you when he hears a banging on your end. “Six above, I _told you_ I have diarrhea!” Your voice is muffled, sounding like you have the phone pressed to your chest, but the brunet can still hear that declaration. He can’t help but smile faintly. Your words are rushed. “I have to go. I’m afraid I won’t be able to call you like this again. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other soon. But in the meantime... I love you.” 

Before Iggy can reply, you hang up. The second he removes the phone from his ear, Prompto is practically jumping on him with a million questions followed by a few low ones from Gladiolus, who came over to stand in the aisle beside them. Patiently, Ignis answers each one. He informs them all that you’re headed to the Spire where you’ll be expected to fulfill your duties as Arch- Mage. Your plan to raise hell is also quietly revealed and is met with a tense chuckle from Prom, who says that sounds like you. 

And while Ignis is comforted by the fact that you called him with news and that you sounded well, he’s far from happy. You’re still in the thick of it, shuttled off to a hostile institution where you’ll more than likely be surrounded by enemies _even if_ you intend on cleaning house. Again, he has the urge to hold you. Again, he battles that bitterness. But this quest must continue and his duty must be fulfilled with or without you. 

* * *

**Gladiolus**

You’re a real piece of work. 

At least, Gladiolus thinks so and right now he doesn’t think it in the flattering way that he usually does. Over the past few days, you’ve accumulated quite a few strikes against yourself. If this were a sport, you’d be out of the game and possibly fined. There are a few more sports analogies to be had, but right now Gladiolus is too busy glaring at the headrest of the train chair ahead of him to dedicate any energy to thinking of any more. 

Amber eyes glance out of the window at the swiftly passing scenery without really seeing anything. 

They’re all headed to Cartanica without you. A lot of things have been done without you. Maybe that’s what really adds on to the Shield’s frustration: The fact that it seems so easy for you to cut ties. At the start, he told himself that he understood why you felt it was necessary to play the part of the spy. Your insecurities with regard to your frivolous position as arcane advisor was something you’d confided in him about before, so it made sense that you would find it necessary to _do more_ and to _be more_. 

To Gladiolus Amicitia, you’ve never come across as a glory hound even with all of your showboating. All of your fancy words and the way you’d toss out factoids about the local flora and fauna was just a byproduct of growing up in academia. Add in the fact that you’re taking on a role that affords you no accolades from the public and the Shield can’t help but feel frustrated. Why? Because everything you do is full of self-sacrifice and that makes him feel guilty for resenting you for leaving. 

Well, resenting you for leaving and not staying in contact like you said you would. 

Maybe you’ve contacted Iggy or Noct or... Prompto? Gladio can’t understand why you’d contact the blond over the others, but it’s still a possibility. But the thought is tossed out the second it forms, because if anyone had heard a peep from you they would’ve informed the others. Gladio just knows that _he_ won’t be the one to hear from you first or even exclusively. Not with how he left things off. Not with how he shamed you and gave you a passive aggressive verbal smackdown. 

Still, that spat aside, you should’ve been in contact by now- _several times_ by now. The same day that you left, you sent a group text stating that you probably weren’t going to be able to stay in Niflheim (Gladio breathed a sigh of relief) and to be on the lookout for a very unsavory recording of your meeting with the nut job chancellor in which you “played the part.” Practically the second the guys all wondered what you meant by that, the recording was all that was in the news. 

“Well, I suppose we must applaud (y/n) for their acting talent,” Ignis had tried to joke, sensing the tension in the room as everyone listened to your voice ring out over the radio. Gladio wasn’t in a joking mood after having heard you use the total ass whooping he got at the hands of Ravus Nox Fleuret as a way to besmirch Noct. Sure, he understood you were playing a part but it didn’t keep that from smarting a bit or keep color from rising into his cheeks. 

And then... radio silence. 

There’s been no word from you in days, not even after he and Iggy informed a severe looking Cor of what you were up to and they all started getting intel from _actual Lucian spies_ with regard to the goings on in Niflheim. At least they all got word from real spies that you were gonna take part in a ceremony; a kind of knockoff of the types your ancestors performed with their pilgrimage to the Crown City and then blessing of the Ring of Lucii. The Shield almost laughed when he heard about it. 

From the photos, it was far more opulent than anything he remembered. His father had a photo of both Tacitus the Stormbearer and Arch-Mage Decima and her twin’s blessings of the ring. The Iovitas had donned humble attire in subdued colors; that family never having had much by way of riches, even after taking control of the Spire. But you’re dressed to the nines in the photo that’s been on nearly every newspaper’s cover. The one where you’re kissing a ring of your own making on the emperor’s hand. 

That hat with the pointed crown and wide brim looked stupid: Black with gold embellishments and hints of ivory and crimson with robes to match. You wore black leather gloves and matching boots, which... For some reason, Gladiolus just found it odd. He found everything about the mock ceremony stupid and odd. Uncanny is what it was, the photo framed _just so_. It was staged and stilted and made him feel like he needed to take a shower and punch something. 

And the urge to punch something only grew. 

At first, he couldn’t pin down exactly what it was that pissed him off so much. But as you got paraded around to mixed reactions from the Niffs, he finally knew what it was. He couldn’t stomach the idea of you being used. He couldn’t stomach the idea of you _allowing_ yourself to be used _for everyone else’s sake_. Like some show pony, you got trotted around with a placid expression on your face even as people spat at your feet and called you names. The Niffs probably hate you more than most Lucians. 

But then the show ended so abruptly and not even spies have had any information on your whereabouts for days. 

There’s been recent activity at the Spire and Gladiolus still doesn’t know if the news that the college’s old security was dropped in favor of utilizing magitek soldiers is a good thing or a bad thing. It could mean that the college is being prepped for Arch-Mage (y/n) Iovita or it could mean that someone else, someone very firmly pro-Empire, is taking the helm. Even still, the reports have been on Spire activity and _not_ (y/n) activity. 

Rumor has it you’re still in Niflheim, being interrogated. Another rumor says that the magical show pony got taken out to pasture after that short gig. Gladiolus isn’t even sure which would be worse for you: Torture, because he knows you’d _never_ give any of them up, or death. That’s an uncomfortable thought to tackle and deal with, that sudden realization that you might actually be dead and that he’s been upset with and waiting on a letter from a dead person all this time. 

Hands curl into fists against his thighs. 

The infuriating part is that as he sits here in this godsforsaken train headed to Cartanica, nobody acknowledges that grim possibility. Prompto still talks _at_ Noctis like you’re definitely coming back (“(y/n)’s gonna be so mad that they didn’t get to ride a train!”) and the prince hasn’t shown any concern about the fact that nobody has seen or heard from you in literal days. The silence on your end is deafening and makes the Shield feel furious and sick to his stomach in equal measure. 

He’s going crazy, that’s what it is. Every hour of every day, he sees a bird in the sky and hopes for a split second that it’s your familiar. But the bird flies by and he’s left feeling foolish and ill. And nobody seems to care. Everyone is working under the assumption that the capable mage is wily enough to get themselves out of _any_ situation; that the capable mage can even sweet talk death with that silver tongue. All Gladiolus can think about is the fragility of life, particularly yours. 

Most nights, he awakes from this one nightmare. It’s the coeurl incident all over again but he doesn’t bring you back. In the nightmare, when he realizes that you’re dead, he looks up and the coeurl is gone, replaced by Ardyn Izunia. Those golden eyes haunt him and his self-satisfied smirk is so familiar. Gladio looks back down at you and you’re dressed in those ridiculous, imposing robes. Blood oozes from the corner of your mouth except it isn’t blood; it’s black and starts to leak from your glassy eyes, too. You’re cold under his hands. Then he wakes up. 

It’s guilt, isn’t it? 

Gladio wants to explain away the near constant nightmares in some way and guilt seems to fit the bill. Guilt _and_ stress. The way you’d looked at him when he said you were akin to the chancellor still leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He kicks himself for even saying that. Wants to kick himself even harder for not making you stay and for actually _envying_ your freedom to just get up and go be proactive. How naïve a thought was that? To admire your gumption even though he knew it’d harmed you in the past? 

Gladiolus Amicitia is in the infuriating position of being stuck to fester in negative emotion without the ability to act. 

Everything is building up and you’re in no position to bring him relief. While Gladiolus and company are headed for a royal tomb in Cartanica, you’re being shuttled off back to Duscae after spending a few lovely days being stared at by imperial higher-ups but not the ones you wanted face-time with. How many batteries of psychological assessments have you been subjected to? How many needles got stuck in you to take blood and pump you full of what they claimed to be medicine? You’re exhausted. 

So exhausted that it’s _actually_ a relief to be headed back to the imperial-controlled Spire where you intend to raise hell and keep Ardyn and the emperor annoyed if not sufficiently distracted, given your plot to actually be _in_ Niflheim got torpedoed before it could gain any traction. En route to that old college, a needling in your gut prompts you to do what you’d been trying to avoid: 

Write a letter to the guys. You’ve been avoiding doing so because your grand plan blew up in your face so ignominiously. 

However, you _kinda_ owe it to them to at least let them all know that you haven’t taken a dirt nap or anything. A promise was made, after all, and while you’re sure the guys would be more than understanding of your need for discretion considering you’ve been under the watchful eye of the imperials, you have the sneaking suspicion that your hypercritical boyfriend whom you left on bad terms is probably less than sympathetic. You wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been cursing your name since you left. 

Not to say that you think the guy is _spiteful_ \- Well, actually, you know he can be a spiteful punk _even if_ he’s a giant teddybear on most occasions. The Shield’s seemingly limitless kindness _does_ have its limits. You know that. And you know you’ve more than likely been testing those limits with your silence. So it’s with a heavy conscience that you take pen to paper and the second your guards are turned away, you stuff the letter under your chair in the Niff airship. A hand grabs yours and takes the letter. 

A faint smile tugs up the corners of your mouth at that reassuring gesture. It's the only reassurance you'll be getting today. 

The Shield has just turned his glare off of a chair and onto the passing landscapes when he feels a bump against the back of his leg. There’s a crumpling sound of paper and something wriggles between his boots. With a jolt, the Shield stands up and whirls around, looking down at his seat where a big-eared mouse scampers out with a piece of paper in its small mouth. Beady black eyes stare up at him until Gladio takes the hint and reaches down for the paper. 

Swallowing hard, the brunet unfolds the paper and quickly scans the letter. There’s a strange mix of emotion boiling in the Shield’s gut: Comfort, irritation, and resentment. As he stiffly informs everyone that you’re in good health and on your way to the Spire where you intend on “making yourself useful,” Gladiolus can’t help the twinge in his stomach at how impersonal your letter is. You address them all as a collective. There isn’t anything special in there for him in particular. 

It isn’t until he’s sitting back down on his chair and brooding that he notices the mouse’s unblinking stare where it still sits at his feet. Is it waiting on him to write a response? The timing couldn’t be worse. 

Although it’s good to hear that you’re okay, there’s still a lot on the Shield’s mind. There’s a sulky prince and there’s the bitter taste of failure that still lingers in his mouth from Lady Lunafreya’s demise and Iggy’s crippling. There’s an uncertain future and a broken kingdom that needs to be repaired. So while you leave the door open for him to start up a conversation with you and begin to repair your relationship, the letter you get back from Gladiolus is short and to the point: 

“ _Got it_.” 


	61. Prompto: Real Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter tries to tackle the portion of the game's canon story where Prompto is estranged from the rest of the group. Left to his own devices after attempting a daring escape, he gets an unexpected visitor who imparts some strange wisdom on him.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Brief Mentions of Non-Explicit Torture, Language, Angst Overload, Intense Tense Flippage, One Well-Meaning Daemon, Prompto Needs a Break, Seriously, He's Too Good for a Garbo Life

**Real Love**

You’ve been busy.

That’s something that’s said about you often, ad nauseam. But it’s never been more true than it is now. You’ve a college filled with new hires to juggle. You’ve a graduation to preside over before the Spire of Duscae becomes a research hub with no new students to eventually send off to die for the Empire. You’ve a nosy and restless Oracle to hide away and placate. One month seems to last a decade for you; a whirlwind of faces coming and going.

You almost don’t even realize that the magitek soldiers that mingled rigidly with the grizzled mercenaries the Empire hired to patrol the Spire’s grounds are gone, replaced with even more mercenaries. The absence of masked faces doesn’t go unnoticed for terribly long, even by a mage who is currently drowning in duties that they didn’t expect to have until they were well into their thirties. Everything you were supposed to inherit in stages gets foisted upon you in a matter of weeks.

First you inherited your duty to Noctis. But that was something you’ve wrestled with since the moment you could think rationally and control your magic. Everything else? It all got dumped on you the moment your mother died, yet your nomadic lifestyle kept it all from catching up to you. The chaos of the situation you find yourself in is compounded by your own hand. You didn’t  _have_  to fire all of the purists of the Spire’s old, assassinating ways. You didn’t  _have_  to rebrand the Spire into a research institution.

But, if nothing else, you’re dramatic.

The only reason your predecessors kept the vile remnants of the Spire’s old regime was so as not to rock the boat, so to speak. However, with no king readily available for old mages to run and complain to, with no king to be chagrined by your antics (How could Noct  _ever_?), and with no family for those blue bloods to target in revenge, it’s not a worry that you have. How fortunate. It’s the only worry that you  _don’t_  have: You don’t have an accessible King and you have no family left on this planet to threaten.

Lucky, lucky you.

Having seemingly nothing left to lose affords you the decadent luxuries of both pettiness and revenge. And as you wait on a chocobo pen to be built on the college’s grounds for Sunny and as you wait on students to finally move out (thank the Six for the Spire’s antiquated methods to foster exclusivity in the realm of arcane study, since you only have the  _one_  graduating class to worry about), the reality of your self-made isolation begins to settle in.

Though you, of course, hold no responsibility for the fact that you’re an orphan, there’s still something to be said for the other ways in which you busy yourself and make yourself unavailable to the ones who have become like family to you. Call it duty. Call it whatever you want. But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re only in a monsoon of Arch-Mage affairs because you  _chose_  to be.

You miss Prompto. It’s as simple as that. Of course you miss your other friends but Prompto is more than just a friend to you. He’s your  _best_  friend. He’s your boyfriend. And he’s been so for a while, even though he’d still blush right up to his ears and grin like a fool if you said those things aloud. It’s the truth. And another more inconvenient truth is that you still chose to leave and you’d feel like the biggest jackass if you were to go crawling back to everyone  _now_ , right after you said this is where you needed to be.

Sold yourself to the Empire, to  _Ardyn_ , and now you have seller’s remorse.

I mean, yeah, you didn’t really switch allegiances but the pretense remains the same. Ardyn is still pretending to buy the ruse and you’re still pretending that you don’t know that he’s pretending. This isolation hasn’t even been that long but your friends spoiled you. You miss the banter, the screams in the middle of the night when a bug made its way into Prom’s sleeping bag and then he _had_  to share yours for the rest of the night, and you miss… Everything. You miss everything.

A strong front has to be put up as you introduce yourself to bright-eyed mages who couldn’t get a job once they graduated from the Spire. They’re all so enthusiastic, some of them having been on the job market going on ten years because they lacked the right connections, but you find yourself doing something very troubling. Nearly every peppy, high-spirited person has you thinking about Prompto Argentum. And it sucks, to put it lightly.

It sucks to have a very, very common personality trait associated with the one person you miss the most.

You tell yourself to get real. At this point in the game- ‘cause it  _is_  a game between you and Ardyn- you almost want to stay away and hold fast to spite yourself. The not so distant memory of Prompto’s irritation with you for choosing this path still stings and never fails to take the wind from your sails. You’re trying to prove to yourself that you didn’t make the wrong choice. That you really, truly needed to be here to redirect Ardyn’s ire from not only Noctis, but everyone else.

But you’ve already failed in that respect and you don’t even know it yet.

So, so busy, you don’t notice or don’t question the fact that you haven’t received word from your friends in quite some time. It’s been days. Nobody knows what to say to you. Well, that’s not true. They know what to say, they just don’t know  _how_  to say it. They’ve lost Prompto. There. Easy, right? A few short words to convey something so terrible; something that’s sure to make you act reckless around people you can’t afford to be reckless around.

It’s kept quiet, this news.

But the daemon? The daemon notices this lack of correspondences. The daemon notices an empty seat when it goes to check up on your allies, as it’s wont to do. The daemon notices how everyone goes quiet when it makes an appearance, stepping from the shadows as some disarming bunny or something else that’s cuddly and cute. Mum’s the word. Nobody says a thing in the creature’s presence for fear of that “familiar” passing on the news. And it does… eventually.

Prompto isn’t hard to find when the creature knows what it’s looking for. It’s been around him long enough to be attuned to his peculiar energy and it has an inkling of who might have the young man if he isn’t dead. It also has an inkling of who might be able to profit off of the parading around of his corpse if he _is_  dead. Luckily it’s the same person in both instances. Well, lucky for the daemon but very,  _very_  unlucky for poor Prompto Argentum.

He’s a little too sweet, that boy.

But sweet doesn’t necessarily mean “soft” or “breakable.” Perhaps that’s why he quickly became one of the daemon’s favorite unnecessary humans? And, yes, the daemon doesn’t see anything wrong with labeling the blond as “unnecessary.” The “necessary” box is rather small, to tell the truth. There are only two seats in that tiny box and they’re reserved for Noctis Lucis Caelum and (y/n) Iovita. No hard feelings for Prompto, since he has a very similar mental box of his favorite people.

Back to the doom and gloom.

It’s such a shame, really. This couldn’t have happened to a nicer person, thinks the daemon as it wanders the shadows of Zegnautus Keep. Entering the realm of the living once more, that corpse allows its boney fingertips to trace along the cold wall of the lonely corridor, a soft scraping sound reaching the ears of one Prompto Argentum. Yellow eyes drag along from side to side, waiting to encounter resistance. But Ardyn Izunia knows that it isn’t here to take his plaything away.

How very nice of him to make one of his haunts a dimly lit place. Though the redhead will bemoan the presence of that wretched creature, threatening to have every space of his blown white with light, he’s a masochist. Ears will prick at the sound of those dragging limbs, that pained gait, and Ardyn will imagine it otherwise. His nostrils will flare at the damp musk of decay and char and he’ll replace it with the memory of honeysuckle and leather. Ardyn loves to torture himself with the past.

But then the daemon speaks with lapses in its memory. A brain half-rotted away, some memories there and some not, with seemingly no rhyme or reason as to how or why. It’s better than you, though. Better than a poor excuse for a replacement of something the man lost a long, long time ago. And yet… Where is he now? Boney fingers like clawed things continue to drag against the wall, that soft scraping becoming something more grating, more harsh.

Ardyn, for all his ire and contempt, is with  _you_. Which is why the daemon chooses to be  _here_.

Sure, you sent it away to acquiesce to the man’s demands, but the daemon could’ve gone literally anywhere in the world. Free of its binds, liberated over a decade ago by the Mage, it decided to go where it felt a comforting presence was needed. Muscle memory. Before it was banished, the daemon used to be a quiet companion to many torture victims. Though, they typically  _were_  always Iovitas. An exception is made for Prompto Argentum.

Two flares for eyes focus on the figure that’s kept behind not one but two sets of bars. He must’ve escaped before to warrant such a precaution. Or he put up a fight being brought here. A lipless mouth tries to smile; a tremble of scorched flesh grimacing around exposed teeth. It thinks that Prompto behaves like many an Iovita in captivity. A fighter through and through. It would be proud to have him as its blood, but today it must issue a warning.

A shift takes place in the corridor. Energy vibrates and skin splits as the wretched creature dons a visage that might be a bit more appealing than that of a burned corpse. The fair one  _is_  squeamish, after all. He can hardly stand the sight of serpents and anything with more than four legs, so the daemon hopes to spare itself some embarrassment by not making the same foolish mistakes it made when it first revealed itself to you after you chose to forget it.

Confusion is better than revulsion, after all.

Prompto’s head hangs low. Muscles are somehow tense and slack at the same time. It’s exhausting. Hanging here? Waiting for what comes next? It’s tiring. He’s had enough time to go through stages of denial and fear: “Can this really be happening?” “Not to  _me_.” “It won’t last for much longer.” And he’s surprised that his thoughts haven’t become cyclical. Usually, in a crisis, they are. Thoughts chase their tail until someone snaps him out of it. But not now.

The funny thing is, not once does he blame Noct for getting him in this mess.

Sure, _in the moment_ , he was a little pissed off that Noct got played ‘cause falling off of a damn train isn’t exactly his idea of a good time. Yet, even when he’s here in this horrible, nightmarish situation, he wonders if Noct is okay. At least, he thinks,  _you_  are. Safe and sound in the Spire. The blond only knows this because the remaining fragments of the Lucian government got in contact with Dr. Drusa Alomar, your right hand, and got her to hire on a Lucian spy…

It seemed like the  _very moment_  that word reached everyone that you’d fired nearly all of the magisters and some staff at the Spire, word was reaching the guys that they had someone on the inside to watch you. So, for the moment, Prompto believes that he can rest as easy as he can knowing that neither of his best friends are in a similar situation as himself. He draws strength from that; from the knowledge that you and Noct are okay and that he needs to make it through this to see you again.

Which is why the sharpshooter would’ve taken far more comfort from the sight of a monstrous creature lurking outside of his damn cell than from  _Orion_ , the strange Spire grad whom he strongly believed (and still believes to this day) to be your stalker. Yeah, he suspects that Orion is more than that, but all suspicions of the alleged scholar’s origins fizzle away when brown eyes rest on him and a smile spreads slowly across that moony face.

There are so many things for him to worry about: His own origins and where he stands with everyone after they all find out something that he believes to be so shameful. The one thing Prompto thought he didn’t have to worry about was your safety. ‘Cause you’re the dashing, daring mage. He’s always felt safe with you because he’s always believed in your ability to not only take care of yourself, but to look after everyone else as well. But seeing Orion here?  _Here_?

That pale face cast in gloomy shadow looks so sinister that Prompto’s stomach sinks low. A horrible assumption is made. He knew you never should’ve left. He should’ve thrown a fit to make you stay even if it made him look childish. The first words out of Prom’s mouth upon seeing Orion are: “Is (y/n) okay?” He doesn’t even sound like himself, voice so dry and paper-thin. It cracks like ice in hot water and melts away into the oppressive silence of Zegnautus Keep just as quickly.

Unblinking brown eyes don’t waver for a second. For the blond’s consideration of you, he’s rewarded with a row of almost eerily straight, white teeth. A pale hand comes up, long fingers curling around one of the metal bars of his cell. The daemon steps closer, lips nearly touching the cell bar when it speaks. “(y/n) isn’t the one currently in a holding cell above a dead city. Your concern is misplaced.” Its voice is breathy and modulated, almost soothing.

“You didn’t answer me.” Prompto’s voice comes stronger now, blue eyes blazing. “Are they okay? Why are  _you_  here?”

That solid gaze drags over the sharpshooter’s puffy and discolored face, over the bruises on his arms and the unseeable wounds. It lingers on the way his left eye is filled with blood, a vessel having burst from strain. “They’re in good health and I’m simply here to assess the damage done to your body.” Orion gives one purposeful sniff and Prompto mistakenly thinks the young man is clearing his nose. “It’s nothing irreversible. The wounds will heal. The hurt will pass.”

Silence settles back in and fatigue creeps back up on Prompto. His body sags in its restraints once more, eyes downcast. For a moment, he can forget his own pains. He can forget how his body aches, he can forget how he both yearns to see Noct and dreads facing his best friend. Because in this moment, he truly believes that even if you might currently be in good health, Orion’s presence spells danger. Blue eyes flicker up in the dim lighting of the cell.

“You work with Ardyn, don’t you? That’s how you were able to conveniently find us in Lestallum back then.”

Prompto isn’t even sure what he’s hoping to achieve here. He’s restrained and alone. Even if Orion confirms his fears, what’s he gonna do about it? There’s no one for him to tell, to warn. There’s no one to free him so he can make a mad dash to contact you and warn you that your creepy former classmate is with the Niffs. He’s useless. The thought has him glowering at Orion for an answer. A crooked smirk is the first thing the Spire grad deploys.

The daemon rests its pale forehead against the metal bar. The metal doesn’t grow warm despite the contact of flesh, the body itself having long since gone cold. “No. That would be (y/n),” the daemon all but pouts. “Rather, they work  _for_  him, for the time being at least. I’ll have you know the arrangement was never for (y/n) to serve the emperor. Ardyn Izunia is not quite so generous as to allow his playthings to wield any sort of power.”

You and Iedolas are slighted in the same pragmatic sentence. How nice. But it’s true. Ardyn enjoys giving the illusion of control. He enjoys giving the illusion of many things, really, without actually giving anything. And that’s something that the daemon knows all too well. That stolen body gets pressed even harder against the bars, those vacant brown eyes still so affixed on Prompto as it awaits his response. It expects more questions. That’s fine. He’s a bit more chatty than the tortured Iovitas.

“If you must know,” the creature drawls, eyes hooded when it realizes the shutterbug isn’t going to say anything more, “I work for (y/n) and (y/n) alone. Rest assured, my loyalty isn’t a thing that can be bought or sold.”

For some reason, Prom finds himself actually believing Orion. Gosh, is he _that_ tired? Prompto blinks and suddenly Orion is beyond the bars, right in front of him. Stunned for a moment, Prom scowls and sighs, “Oh, great. I’m hallucinating. That makes more sense than you actually being here, I guess.”

Soles click against the floor as the daemon approaches, hands behind its back. That dusky lavender cardigan shifts against lean muscle when the shapeshifter reaches out toward the blond’s battered face. Oh, this is such a shame. You’re really a huge fan of his face and the daemon knows you'd hate to see him like this. “Afraid not,” the daemon tuts. "This is all very real.” Pale fingertips hover over his freckled cheek before the daemon allows its hand to fall away. It steps away, hands clasped behind its back. “For selfish reasons, I wish I was the one to save you.”

It wishes it could earn your praise in this way.

That gets Prompto’s attention. Cornflower blue eyes blink rapidly, the color seeming to drain from his face. Seriously? Orion is his golden ticket? “Wh-What? You can get me outta here?” The sharpshooter’s voice cracks at the end of his question, making the daemon tilt its head to reassess him. Nope. There’s no change in the damage done to him. That was just surprise in his voice.

Already backing away, the creature corrects, “I  _can_  but I  _won’t_.” At Prompto’s distressed expression, it murmurs, “Fret not. Though I’ll leave you here today, your king is on his way. This momentary incarceration won’t last much longer.” The lean young man’s back hits the cell’s door.

“Wait!” That call is a crack in the air.

Prompto really doesn’t know why he’s panicking. Before Orion came, he’d calmed himself enough to actually be more bored than upset; fearing confronting Noct more than confronting another soldier or even Ardyn, for crying out loud. He even found himself counting spots on the wall at times. This is cruel. The taste of freedom on the tip of his tongue, Orion’s teasing that he has the ability to free him and yet he  _won’t_. The blond doesn’t realize what he’d need to face if the daemon actually helped him.

He’s unaware of the _face_  he’d have to face. And though polite as he may be, Prompto Argentum doesn’t have the resolve to  _not_  initially panic at the sight of what amounts to a desiccated cadaver that walks and  _kinda_  talks.

Eyes suddenly so sad, the person Prompto Argentum believes to be Orion murmurs, “I must admit that I haven’t been fully honest with you. You see, when I learned of your situation, I acted on this opportunity to get you alone to inform you that (y/n) has a debt to pay off.” An edge of warning enters its mellow voice. “You  _must_  know that Ardyn has killed in (y/n)’s name and will continue to do so; that debt will bloat like a rotting corpse and when it finally bursts you shouldn’t be around for it.”

A little thrown by that metaphor, Prom parrots, “Debt?”

This conversation is coming from literally nowhere. To Prompto, he’s still talking to the weirdo who approached you in Lestallum. He’s talking to some know-it-all, uppity Spire mage who made him feel inferior. Now that uppity know-it-all is speaking like he has some secret knowledge about you, like he knows you intimately, and Prompto honestly didn’t think getting imprisoned could’ve got any worse and yet  _here’s Orion_ talkin’ a load of nonsense.

There are dots on Prompto’s mental board that he’s currently struggling to connect. A triangle forms of you, Ardyn, and Orion; three people who are somehow connected. Though Prom and everyone else already guessed that you had some sort of companionship with Ardyn back in the day, Prompto isn’t sure how Orion gets wedged in between you and the chancellor. Especially since Orion talks about Ardyn like he knows him as well as he knows you.

Prompto’s puzzled question prompts the daemon to raise its stolen eyebrows. “I shouldn’t say anything else. I’ve already spoken out of turn.”

“That hasn’t stopped you before,” snaps Prompto. He’s as indignant as he can be, considering his prone position. The daemon isn’t easily cowed, though. Especially not by humans.

Behind the daemon’s back, it curls its fingers around one of the cell’s metal bars once more. It’s time to leave and it has said what it needed to say. However, it decides to offer one last reassurance. Or at least what it considers to be a reassurance. “You’ll have your pound of flesh for this heinous crime committed against you. The Mage is the arbiter of justice, after all.”

“Wait. What?  _No_. I won’t- If  _you_  care about (y/n),  _don’t_  let them deal with-!” Prompto’s sudden and panicked shouting is abruptly cut off with an irritated wave of Orion’s hand.

“Callings mustn’t be ignored. Would you tell your  _king_  not to fulfill his purpose?” At Prom’s thin-lipped silence, the daemon continues, “I’ll be sure that (y/n) is ready to fulfill their secondary duty as impartial judge, jury, and executioner of Ramuh’s will when the time comes. But, for now, I ask that you keep your distance.” Brown eyes flicker over the clasps about the blond’s wrists. “When you have the freedom to move, of course.”

Resigned, Prompto spits, “You  _seriously_ came here to tell me to stay away from (y/n)?”

Shoulders shrug dismissively. “In a manner of speaking. This situation,” one pale hand gestures vaguely at Prom’s state, “can be easily repeated with a far nastier outcome if you don’t heed my advice. Though adversity builds character, senseless pain doesn’t. (y/n) has always had a greater purpose in their life, one that requires much sacrifice, and things have only become messier due to recent events. If you interfere, I’m not saying that  _I’ll_  hurt you. But I  _am_  saying that you  _will_  be hurt.”

“I’m not gonna leave them. Especially not when you’ve just told me that they’re gonna make  _even more_  sacrifices.” And especially not when Orion has just revealed to him that he’s intimately acquainted with Ardyn and is going to be (or already is) stuck to your side. Prompto wants you back and it isn’t just because he misses you terribly. He fears you might be in way over your head. And you are, even if you deny it. Gods, rescue can’t come soon enough.

With a strained smile, the daemon admits, “It’s the nature of the beast. Nothing good was ever produced without someone having to struggle to achieve it. (y/n) will struggle, perhaps more than most. But I’m saying that struggle might be made easier if they didn’t have to watch you suffer on the sidelines. They love you and while that makes me happy, I’m afraid your love might make them waver. A choice will have to be made, Prompto. While I believe (y/n) has the strength to let go, I can’t claim the same of you.”

Spoken like a true Iovita.

That’s always the great debate, isn’t it? Love or duty? They’ve never been one in the same for your family. One has always taken precedence to an almost disturbing degree. Entire families have been left behind for that siren’s call to duty. Lovers left in the lurch, children left to raise themselves with nothing but an old book and a daemonic ancestor to haunt their dreams. The daemon expects you to have a similar life. Scorned in its own past life, it doesn’t think an alternative is possible.

Wishful thinking. It wanted you to have  _everything_. But you’re willful and that stubbornness has left it with little recourse. It’s warned you about Ardyn yet you seem determined to stay in his pocket and call it spying. All the while, he sinks his hooks deeper into you, feeding that shameful desire of his for a life he could’ve had; feeding a shame that the daemon had initially preyed upon to get him to protect you. The daemon knows that you can’t hold Ardyn’s attention while keeping a lover.

He’s far too covetous to allow you such happiness.

So, the daemon doesn’t begrudge Prompto his little scowl after he’s just been so callously reprimanded by a stranger for his tender heart. It knows he loves you and that he doesn’t take kindly to being told that he shouldn’t. It understands how it feels to not be allowed to love someone. But it knows that the hurt of a dead loved one aches more than rejected love. That’s a pain that never goes away, even with the passage of time.

A slow, sad smile winds across that pale face. “Prove me wrong, then.”

Prompto only scowls even more, those freckled cheeks turning redder and splotchier than ever. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

One blink and Prompto Argentum is abruptly alone again with only his thoughts to keep him company. He’s left to question if this conversation even took place at all and the daemon skulks away, unseen. It doesn’t really expect anything to come of this conversation. A seed was planted, the daemon cleared its conscience. The ball, as it has heard you say before, is now in Prompto’s court. And Prompto? Those blue eyes flash as he glares down the hall.

Quite predictably, Prompto doesn’t heed the daemon’s advice.


	62. 23. Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sighed a lot while writing this. I’m sure you can tell. After every full stop, there’s a sigh. This is just y’all ruminating over the line of the Oracles, the Oracle ruminating over your line, and then you getting sucker punched for your inattention. Also, this chapter features the first ever MAJOR deviation from the game’s canon outside of y’all being present and Luna being revived.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Major Canon Deviation, Nighttime Jaunts in the Woods, Forced Foreshadowing, An Unhealthy Friendship, Luna Won’t Stand For Your Nonsense, Maybe Your Family Wasn’t So Awesome?, Daemonic Origins, The Chapter in Which I Humanize the Astrals Way Too Damn Much, Casually Ruining Your Life, “““Lore”””

**23\. Pieces**

Necromancy, more so than any other magic, has no guarantees. 

Once someone is risen, there’s nothing keeping them from being killed again. It’s all in the gamble. It’s luck. Even if a necromancer gives someone twenty years to live, the one who was raised isn’t guaranteed to see all of those years. Necromancy can’t stop a bullet or a knife. Necromancy isn’t some sort of security blanket. It’s why that magic is so risky. All of that effort and it can be extinguished in a blink. Try again, unlucky loser. 

It’s why you have Lunafreya hidden away. 

Eyes are kept closed as the daemon spirits you away to that secret location. You’ve no expectations, being the pragmatic sort, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t still surprised when you immediately recognize the familiar Duscaen wilderness upon opening your eyes. And just because you’re pragmatic, it doesn’t keep you from whirling around on the daemon and balking, “Are you fucking kidding me? I ask you to take her somewhere hidden from Ardyn and you take her ten steps away from the damn Spire?” 

Under starlight, the daemon crosses its sinewy arms and reprimands, “Language, (y/n). I’ll have you know that this location is more than ten steps away.” 

“But _this_ ,” you gesture aggressively to the trees, “is still Duscae. It’s the Nebulawood, if I’m not mistaken.” And to be sure that you aren’t mistaken, you stealthily glance around at your surroundings once more, taking in the abundance of trees and undergrowth. The forest looks blue in the moonlight, a familiar sight to someone who has stalked daemonic necromancers in the hopes of suckering one into attacking so you could bind them to you... You need new hobbies. 

“Ah, and you most certainly are not mistaken.” Yellow eyes flash with glee. “How very perceptive. You’re quite skilled, my sweet.” 

“Flattery won’t make me forget that you hid Lady Lunafreya in Duscae. I was thinking somewhere _outside_ of Lucis, at least.” Gloved hands rub aggressively against your tired eyes. “For crying out loud, imperial airships are in the sky 24/7 like the Empire turned this place into a primo vacation spot for soldiers. Could you pick a worse place? And that’s not a rhetorical question. You might as well have put her up in a room across from Ardyn’s office so they can say good morning to each other.” 

In your fatigue, you’re perhaps too short with the daemon. Ever since you returned to the Spire, you’ve been working on overdrive to become the biggest thorn in the Empire’s side. After reuniting with Drusa, who didn’t for a second believe that bull about you turning on Noct (“You’re not a spy!”), you fired nearly all of the magisters and hired new staff. That cost a ton of money. _Imperial_ money, since the Spire is now nestled comfortably in the Empire’s pocket right next to its wallet. 

An infinitely satisfying experience delivered with a bored expression, you’d had them lined up down the hall outside of the Arch-Mage’s, well, _your_ office. You did it so they’d know what their fate was but still had to wait to hear it from your lips before they could pack their things and leave. And you drew it out with long pauses, sighs, reflections over their many years at the Spire and all of their non-achievements. Then you informed the soldiers not to allow them back on the grounds. 

“I’m not saying to kill them on sight,” you’d tutted, an unamused Drusa Alomar to your right as you informed the members of the unit, “but I _am_ saying not to even allow them up the driveway. No matter their excuse, they have no official business here and don’t operate in a capacity of authority. Remember these twenty-three faces. Got it? Good.” 

And then you spent a good part of your day in the kitchen, wondering if you could hire Coctura because your favorite cook had retired before you left the Spire and you felt like the rest of the cooks were maybe less than lukewarm toward you. _And then_ that gave you the great idea of frivolous hiring. From all the way off in Duscae, you’ll have the Empire hemorrhaging money. With noble families scorned, no donations will be pouring in to staunch the outflow. 

“Dru, do you have a list of recent graduates spanning back over the last decade who haven’t been able to find work?” You’d asked from the comfort of your big, empty Spire dining hall. “Mother told me you were the one who sent out email and letters to the alumni.” 

The dark-skinned woman, your new right-hand, had squinted her carnelian eyes at you and asked, though she already knew the answer, “Do you want me to make sure they don’t have certain names?” Code for: Want me to avoid calling on Spire purists or people from notoriously anti-Iovita families? Of course, the answer was yes. Then she’d replied, “I might know of a few mages who would be thrilled at the opportunity to work in and contribute to the arcane field.” 

“Good. Please contact them. We won’t be taking on anymore students until this war is over. My concern is for the safety of _such_ impressionable young people. In the meantime, the Spire will be a research hub so do be sure to try and pick those who had more than just a fleeting interest in arcane research. Please write up a missive for our benevolent emperor about the changes.” 

Drusa pursed her lips, an expression that told you without any words that she thought maybe you were playing a little too carelessly with fire. “Gladly.” 

“Oh, and I’m going to need a new cook. I have a woman in mind but she has her own restaurant in a prime location, so she might need to be tempted with a pretty gil. There’s also a man in her area whose skillset I need.” At Dru’s expectant and mildly exasperated expression, you explained, “To keep up at least the appearance of deference, I need someone to make _beautiful_ jewelry for me to enchant and send off to Niflheim. The man, Dino Ghiranze, can do that. I’ve worked with him before.” 

“And all of these people are to be on the Spire’s payroll, correct?” 

“The Empire’s, technically.” 

Watching you sip your coffee and flip through a newspaper so casually, the woman who had more than just a hand in raising you smiled softly to herself. Right then, she could see both Tacitus and Decima. She could see that hard edge and the softness it protected. “Are you having fun, dear?” She wondered. 

Eyes made all big and innocent, you put your coffee down and wondered, “What do you mean? I’m just fulfilling my family’s goal of whipping this place into shape. Who needs soldiers when you can arm people with _knowledge_?” 

The magister shook her head. “Well, try not to have _too much_ fun. I’ll get these numbers crunched and send out inquiries. Then I’ll have them crunched again once salaries are settled on so those imperials can see how much your allegiance is costing them." 

And thus, in one fell swoop, you made the college “imperial controlled” in name only by assuring that it couldn’t be counted on to provide the Empire with Spire-trained mages. Not under your reign, at least. Over your dead body would you allow that to happen. You’ve been so busy razing the Spire to the ground and building it back up that you haven’t had the time to check on Lunafreya or check in with the guys. You’ve received letters from them, delivered by the daemon with insistent raises of its stolen eyebrows. 

As much as you’d like to respond to the letters that have come on napkins, sticky notes, and the backs of receipts, your priority is Luna. Foolish as it may sound, you’re afraid of her getting lonely or feeling isolated. And now that you know she’s in friggin’ _Duscae_ , you’re afraid of her getting caught on the doorstep of the Empire’s vacation home. Just that thought alone has a headache throbbing in your frontal lobes. It’s made worse by the daemon’s seemingly innocent expression. 

“Do you not know where we are?” It wonders. 

Eyes narrow. “Is that a trick question? I just said we’re in the Nebulawood and you confirmed that.” 

“Part of Duscae’s vast and varied wilderness, yes. This place is home to some of the most dangerous daemons known to man, namely the necromancer who does not do the name justice.” The ancient daemon points to something behind you with its boney, crooked finger, and you look over your shoulder, spying a quaint house. “And, many years ago, it was also home to the twin daughters of Tacitus the Stormbearer, Decima and Lysandra Iovita.” 

Your head snaps back to the daemon so fast that you nearly give yourself whiplash. “What?” 

“In his love for his children, Tacitus used his knowledge of ancient runes to protect these lands, making the surrounding forest a maze to those who came here with ill intent. The runes still stand, undisturbed. He burned them into the very ground beneath your feet. They’re etched over ten-feet deep in the earth.” 

“My grandfather stuck my aunt and my mother in the Nebulawood? As _you_ said, there are necromancers!” 

For a thing with relatively few facial features left intact, the daemon sure does look disdainful. You’ve no idea how defensive it is of every Iovita’s actions, even the actions of the one who banished it in the first place. “And as _I said_ , the forest wouldn’t allow evil creatures near the house. Had your grandfather not housed the twins here, your father never would’ve stumbled across your mother and you wouldn’t be here now, (y/n). Fidelis had been on the hunt for monsters and he found his greatest quarry yet.” 

“I know you think that probably sounds romantic, but it doesn’t.” 

In the brisk night air, you pull your cloak tighter around your body and stare hard at the house. You look so out of place here in the wilderness, dressed to the nines like you’re still being paraded around for the Niffs to wave at and spit on. The house has one floor and the whole thing is made of granite. Shutters are painted forest green and the roof is thatched. It all looks homey, at least. You’re glad Lunafreya hasn’t been living in a hovel all this time. 

And if what the daemon says is true, then you must concede that this is probably the best place for her. No use hiding the Oracle away in a damn mountain or something. It’s with that dreary image in mind that you pout and thank the daemon for using this place... Though, you’re a little curious as to how long it has known your mother to know of the house in the first place. Did it say that it’s watched your family this whole time? The longer you think about that, the creepier it seems, so you brush it off. 

C’mon, you’ve already come to terms with the fact that you’re working with an _ancient daemon_ that Aela the Banisher accused of being _Ifrit’s Messenger_. No use making yourself feel even more weirded out. “ _Inconvenient truths, and all that,_ ” you think quite blandly, resigned to your own willful ignorance on the subject that couldn’t _possibly_ come back to bite you in the ass. It’s not as if anyone is going to reveal some terrible truth to you about the daemon’s origins, right? It’s not like Aela lied, right? 

“Let’s get inside,” you huff, breath coming out in a puff of steam. Six, it’s cold out and you’re forced to wait just a little bit longer to get inside when you realize the door is locked. The impulse to pick the lock is pushed away in favor of the more civilized action of _knocking_. To her credit, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret peers through the blinds to see who’s on the doorstep before opening the door and ushering you in. The blonde noticeably pauses at the sight of the daemon without its stolen skins. 

Shame flares in that old mind. Just as the daemon steps back as if it means to go away, the Oracle beckons it in, a tepid smile on her face. Though she has her very reasonable reservations about the creature, she knows how much it means to you. And the former princess of Tenebrae isn’t without sympathy. When you brought her back into the realm of the living, she had seen the fallen creature’s shame. That thing that stands perpetually and dutifully at your back... 

If it hadn’t attached itself to you, if it hadn’t chosen to cling so desperately to you, fingers like clawed things in your very being, she would have more compassion. As it stands, the daemon has fully committed to aiding you by ruining you. Crossing between realms, a veil over her eyes, she had watched you fall into flames. You held her hand and pulled her into life and you burned before her eyes. Yet you smiled. Black spilled from your fogged eyes and you smiled while your skin charred and sloughed. 

Your smile had been a genuine one but your eyes were unseeing, blinded. Fire consumed you and your flesh came off in her hand, but she wasn’t burned. In fact, you’d been cold. The studious blonde has written down notes for herself, tearing down that vision to the bone because it hadn’t been a divine one given to her by the gods. It didn’t feel the same. It didn’t feel like a prophecy. In that place between life and death, she believes she gazed across time and saw the daemon’s past and your future... 

Luna has contemplated that vision every moment since the daemon brought her here. In solitude, she’s turned it over in her mind. Even from a young age, she had detected a desperate quality in you. How eager you were to please. It’s perhaps your most exploitable quality, second to your loyalty. Though, in truth, the two go hand in hand. A simpatico mage with a face of stone and a tongue of steel. It’s funny to think about if the blonde isn’t considering the context in which she parses out your personality. 

The duality of the Mage’s nature is far more obvious in you than it has ever been in any of your ancestors, even the first. Far more softhearted, you’re more willing to risk your position as the King’s protector in order to protect more people. All of your ancestors left lovers behind. A child was born and often taken by the Iovita parent to be raised with the sole purpose of serving the Kings if the partner hadn’t already perished. It’s something you couldn’t bring yourself to do if you ever had a child. 

It’s one of many ways in which you’re different. 

That cold cruelty isn’t so steadfast in you. A baby stealer. An impartial judge, jury, and executioner of those who have broken magical law. You’re none of those things. If faced with a choice to aid your King in battle when he already has support or to help someone who is about to be dealt a killing blow, you’d help the latter. None of your predecessors would’ve made the same choice. King above all others. It’s why your mother went to die in Insomnia. It’s why Tacitus left the twins to join the Glaives. 

Though you tell yourself that you’ve been a failure in your duties, what with Lunafreya dying and Ignis being injured even though you don’t know the half of how he sustained those injuries and wrongly assign blame, in some ways you’re more a success than your ancestors. Benevolent acts were committed by some, but their goal wasn’t for the benefit of the human race. It was always for the King. Always. Maybe they roll in their graves for your mercy? 

Their mercy, the duality of their nature, was only ever shown to the King, after all. It wasn’t even afforded to _kin_. 

And it’s that softness, that mercy, that the daemon was able to pierce. Your Iovita armor had an opening that the creature dug its fingers into. A mutual and exploitable goal was found and tended to, made to flourish like a carrion flower. The one with no remorse made use of yours. Such a fact has made Luna pause many a time in her pacing in this charming, old-world home. It has made her over-steep her tea and forget a train of thought. 

Stars above, but she feels like a villain when she reveals her distrust of the creature in your presence. That soft mage looks so pitifully to the mage who had no sympathy. And that? That makes even the most amiable woman in the world bitter. For that creature who wallows in your shadow was indeed punished harshly but it wasn’t as if it had done nothing to earn retribution by the Fulgurian’s hand. But you? Lunafreya Nox Fleuret will never say that you deserved _your_ punishment. 

There’s an awkwardness that you’re desperate to escape. The moment you step foot inside your mother’s childhood home, you’re hit with a wall of it and it’s wedged between Lady Lunafreya and the daemon. Even as she beckons it inside and it shuffles in, you feel like you just walked in on something you weren’t supposed to see. The expression she wears is as pleasant as ever, but there’s a coldness to it, an icy edge that has you coughing into the crook of your elbow. 

Blue eyes alight on you and Luna gives you a genuine smile, happy to see you again. “(y/n).” That piercing gaze scans you from head to toe. Your attire gives her pause. It almost makes her heart skip a beat. It looks almost exactly like what you were wearing in that strange vision. The Oracle gently clears her throat and wonders, “How have you been?” 

Your hat is taken off and placed on the scuffed coffee table that dominates the cozy living room. Light from the fireplace reflects off of the golden embellishments that decorate the hat’s wide brim. “I’ve been better, my lady,” you admit. “Running the Spire is as tedious as I always imagined it would be, but so far everything seems to be going to plan.” 

“There’s no need to be so formal, (y/n). I like to think that we’re friends.” Luna smiles and a small part of her hopes you don’t get too comfortable here or she’s going to have to take down the admittedly neurotic looking “theory board” she’s created in one of the house’s rooms. She’s taken the vision thing a little too seriously. Then her pale brow furrows and she gestures for you to take a seat. “I’m sorry... You’re back in the Spire?” 

Sinking into an overstuffed armchair with a floral print, you throw your head back and groan. “Oh, gods. I forgot to have a message sent to you! I’m so sorry, La- Lunafreya.” 

“There’s no need to apologize. I know now.” The blonde sits on the couch adjacent to you and for the first time you realize she’s dressed casually in a flannel button-up and jeans. Were those your mother’s? “Obviously the plan has changed and you’re no longer in Niflheim. What have you been doing in the Spire? Is Ardyn-” from the corner of her eye, she notices the daemon stiffen. She can’t talk about him here. Little does she know she’ll never be allowed to talk to you about him at all. “-with you?” 

Eyes roll and you shake your head. “No. Of course he knew I was up to no good and that I would never truly defect from Noctis. This is his way of putting me in time-out until he’s ready to use me for whatever goal he has in mind.” 

The daemon comes to stand behind you and Luna clenches her jaw. It’s imperceptible. That daemon will be stuck to you like glue when she’s around, fearing exposure. It will interrupt if she mentions Ardyn, for surely if she reveals his past the daemon’s will naturally be brought to light as well. And it won’t have that. It won’t abide it. It won’t risk having you abandon it, too. You’re all it has left. That lonesome creature will rip you out of this realm and take you far away if Lunafreya so much as breathes its name. 

The creature is a menace. 

All while Luna is being informed of what you’ve been doing, even as she assures you that she isn’t lonely and agrees to endure this isolation for just a little bit longer, _that’s_ what’s really going through her head. Once upon a time it was a noble creature but in this corrupted state she knows it will force you to fall. In its love for you, it will shove you over the edge and you’ll thank it. Not a stranger to self-sacrifice or a call to fulfill one’s purpose, she can’t begrudge you your drive. 

However, she _can_ take issue with the method. Like the daemon did before it was a daemon, you treat yourself like a means to an end. It isn’t simply the enduring of something unpleasant, like she experienced. No, this is the debasement of oneself for another’s benefit. This is you ripping yourself apart and scattering the pieces. And although flowers grow from where the flesh had rotted and nourished the soil, it’s inhumane. The daemon will help you pick your own corpse clean. 

She smiles so amiably and laughs so affably at your lame jokes that you have no idea that you’re sitting across from the one person in the world who will unflinchingly give you hell for what you do to yourself. Her sympathies aren’t lacking. Lunafreya Nox Fleuret has always had a soft spot for you and your cringe-humor. It’s in the way she has a difficult time looking at you head-on, like Ardyn did not so long ago, that those sympathies become stern and unyielding. 

But you’re a menace. 

And not even strictly to the ones you wish to annoy. It’s supreme arrogance that has you stepping all over contracts that were forged without your knowledge, has you undoing them with deft fingers and finagling them into something else. It’s the arrogance of one who possesses unmeasurable power and doesn’t necessarily lack restraint, but certainly lacks deference toward authority. The Astrals set the stage and you keep trying to clear the board, either unwittingly or purposefully. 

Bahamut will make his terms known and you’ll pipe in, “Um. Excuse me? No.” like some obnoxious lawyer who finds fault with each contract. And the finger is pointed at Ramuh. He never corrected you. He turned away from that family line so that he wouldn’t have to see his own child, the one he condemned, working from the shadows. His remorse created you. His repentance reimagined that familiar visage and the Astral has willfully turned a blind eye to all of your errors. 

The neglectful ancestral summoner was never quite so neglectful. Or at least his neglect was a conscious decision rather than one borne from apathy. And although he closes his eyes as he hears your soul cry out, he still listens. The Mage plucks off pieces of themselves to give to the humans and Ramuh allows it. The Mage is left a ruin for the masses instead of just for The One. The Fulgurian feels you fading from the universe and allows you to slip from his grasp. 

Yet the Oracle will hold on. She’ll remember that night when you were young. She’ll remember how she told you that no one protects the Mage. In the absence of the King, when darkness fills the void that you created within yourself, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret will stand for you and hold you close. Her light will burn you down to the cold marrow in your bones. Tears will fall from her eyes as you fall apart in her arms, nothing but ash and stardust to blow away in the wind. 

The playing board is set by your hand and all await your move. 

* * *

**** The Spire is costing the imperials an arm and a leg and nobody has come knocking on your door. In fact, what sits on your desk is a letter of approval for funding. No reprimands, no revisions; just a signature from some faceless treasurer. And you’re pretty sure that signature is actually a franking stamp from the little denotation at the bottom right hand of the signature; so someone who is unfamiliar with dealing with these affairs got them mixed up. 

How do you know this? Well, when you were a mageling and constantly getting into all sorts of trouble, you tended to get your sticky little fingers into everyone’s stuff. As most kids typically do, you loved stamps and stickers and _anything_ that you could stick on walls or paper. Before your grandfather went around (y/n)-proofing certain off-limits areas of the Spire, you got into the business office and raised hell with all of the office supplies therein. 

It just so happens that a _franking stamp_ was your weapon of choice against what seemed like every last sheet of 8.5 x 11 inch paper to be found in that office. 

But that’s beside the point. The thing that’s setting off alarm bells in your head is that this letter, though legit, is sloppy. Obviously the person who handled it didn’t care much about what they were doing. There’s one man you know who doesn’t give a damn about money. It’s no object to him and is simply a frivolous thing to wave at people to make the weak question their allegiances. This man also just so happens to be right by Aldercapt’s side, last you checked. 

“Why are you scowling?” Drusa wonders from your doorway. 

She’d hastily delivered the letter to you after opening it, as per her self-appointed duties. Things have been hectic here, what with all the new hires, and Drusa likes to alleviate some of your burden. Needless to say, however, she’s gobsmacked that your insane request was approved. Dru wonders if you should’ve asked for a larger research budget but shakes away the greedy thought as quickly as it comes to mind. 

The magister clears her throat and points out with a subtle nod of her head toward the letter, “You’ve got everything you wanted. Even that chocobo pen and a _very specific_ and foul-tempered chocobo to take up residence in there.” 

“Nice pun,” you quip though your voice is devoid of emotion even if you _do_ appreciate a good bird pun. Eyes scan the document once more, appraising that massive figure that the Empire shouldn’t be able to part so carelessly with, no matter how prosperous they may seem. For some reason, you don’t think Chancellor Izunia was met with any resistance when handling your request. That’s... “Interesting.” 

“Hm?” Dru’s head tilts. The magister continues to lean in your doorway, still refusing to enter. That might have something to do with the coeurl curled in front of your desk. That damn, dramatic daemon. You’d had to step over the massive carnivorous cat to take the letter from Drusa’s defiantly steady hand and the daemon had pawed playfully at your ankle, nearly making you go sprawling to the floor. “What’s interesting?” 

The letter is stuffed into a drawer in your desk- a junk drawer filled with a dozen enchanted things that could make extracting such a letter difficult for the unassuming. Eyes flicker up to the older woman and you offer her a lukewarm smile. “Nothing. I just need to schedule a meeting with the chancellor. Thanks, by the way, for opening the letter. I know you were trying to make sure nobody was trying to poison me or... blind me with pocket sand. Envelope sand?” 

“Oh, hush.” Carnelian eyes roll and the magister scowls. That’s not funny. Laugh all you want, but it’s a very real possibility that an attempt on your life might be made. It’s not as if you’ve any friends in the Empire and you effectively burned many a Lucian bridge with your little chat with that feckless chancellor. Drusa Alomar doesn’t know what she’d do if anything happened to her adopted child. 

But right now, her child appears lost in thought. And you are. 

This business with the Empire so far has been... To put it plainly, it’s been weird as hell. They came on strong at the beginning, imposing themselves on you like they meant to smother you to death, and now it has been days upon days of _silence_. And when you aren’t sending off inquiries into the void, you’re getting conflicting information from the Empire. 

First it was the whole affair with Leviathan’s trial. You’d been asked to give a detailed statement of your role in the trial and then you were informed that Ravus Nox Fleuret was going to be executed for his dereliction of duty; an unsubtle threat that you, too, could be executed for treason whenever the emperor feels like it. But then you heard Ravus was in Niflheim and was still serving his post as High Commander. 

Then it was business with the Spire of Duscae. As expected, you received some resistance to your wanting to reframe the college’s purpose during wartime. But the resistance was minimal and the powers that be seemed to disagree. On the one hand, Aldercapt was pissed that you took it upon yourself to run the Spire as if you had no one to answer to. On the other hand, he dropped the issue as quickly as he brought it up. So...? You aren’t sure if you should be prepared for your own execution or what. 

You’re left to wallow in neglect _and_ misinformation since the left hand doesn’t know what the right is doing where imperial affairs are concerned. 

“ _What the hell is going on there?_ ” You wonder and it’s not because you’ve any desire for them to get their house in order. If anything, the Empire floundering so suddenly like a fish out of water is a good thing for your friends and Lucis as a whole. Still, that doesn’t mean you don’t have some concerns. Unknown elements are hardly ideal. 

When you think back on it, there weren’t really that many people in the streets to spit on you back in Gralea. Not like you lament the lack of spittle, but it was just... odd, for the capital of Niflheim. The people who were there were bunched up nice and tight to give the appearance of massive crowds for photographers. It wasn’t anything that you really paid much mind to at the time; you were busy internally squashing down a fear that someone might try to assassinate you, which would’ve been a bummer. 

Even when you weren’t being paraded around, when you were seemingly exiled to a room in some building that you never even got to see the façade of, the only human contact you had was with a medical unit consisting of five doctors and nurses and one of them turned out to be a psychologist who grilled you like a cheese sandwich. Outside of getting shot up with vaccines and having your blood drawn and your brain picked, your only one-on-one interaction was in the form of magitek soldiers. 

No workers crossed your path. No cleaners or cooks. You saw Ardyn, Aldercapt, and the emperor’s toadies and that’s all there was. A skeleton crew to posture for the Mage. Everyone else was a soldier and they weren’t even human. 

“Well, I’m off to bed,” you sigh, suddenly feeling unnerved. It’s around 8 p.m. and you’re still keeping up the appearance of having the same tight sleep schedule as the Spire calls for. Nobody here knows what you really get up to at night. Lips quirked in a crooked grin, you gibe, “I’ll see you _dark_ and early to inform everyone that their research proposals just got fully funded. I expect a parade for my stellar negotiating skills, which involved signing my name on a paper I hardly glanced at.” 

Ignoring your admission that you didn’t revise the letter she’d drafted for a request of funding, Drusa agrees. “I’m sure your new chef and... ‘resident jeweler’ will be happy to know that their residence is now assured. The commute from Galdin Quay to the Spire is admittedly a little stressful now that there are so many imperial patrols.” 

And she would know better than you. Six, it was a pain in the ass for Dr. Drusa Alomar to constantly stop at the newly erected imperial blockades that have been set up on the roads leading to the Spire. How many times did she have to inform a soldier that it was _definitely her_ in the photo, but that she just shaved her head? The older woman laments the fact that she’s a bit too busy (and honestly a little unmotivated) to get her ID photo updated. Besides, those blockades won’t be up for much longer. 

“Right,” you drawl, brow puckering. Your desk is cleared off and tidied up. The coeurl stands, ready to leave, and you maneuver around its large and very inconveniently sized body. “Everyone’s likely going to want to take up in the lower-level living quarters, not that I blame them. There’s definitely enough space for everybody to get their own room.” 

“No roommates? (y/n) those rooms are _massive_.” Drusa steps aside to allow you to close and lock your office door. Ahead of the two of you, the daemon pads down the staircase to the floor just below this one, where your bedrooms are. Drusa watches as that magnificent beast stalks onward. She can’t bring herself to touch it even if she’s dying to. Years of research and observation tell her that even though this is your familiar, coeurls are dangerous. It’s an instinct she can’t shake off. 

Casting Dru a sideways glance, you snort, “And none of these people are college students. They didn’t sign up for _dorm life_ and we have the space. I don’t see why we need to tighten our belts with regard to housing. This college has housed hundreds of people at a time with no issue. Now we’re down to dozens.” 

“Oh, fine,” she huffs, wondering why she even decided to argue with one of the most pragmatic and hardheaded people she knows. You _are_ your mother’s child. A mix of the better and worse qualities of Tacitus, Decima, Lysandra, _and_ Drusa, you’re the most exhausting person to disagree with. The fact brings a ghost of a smile to Dru’s lips. “But I’ll register the rooms via random assignment so that we don’t have any quarrels over them. Some are definitely better than others.” 

The two of you descend the staircase side by side. The stone bannister has porous patches that catch the sleeve of your robe, threatening to tug threads out of place. A faint thud somewhere down the corridor that the staircase’s landing opens out onto alerts you to the fact that the daemon nudged your bedroom door open and waits for you inside. Good. You have a favor to ask of it. Thinking about the erratic behavior of the Empire has you wanting to tie up some loose ends. 

“In what way?” The idle chatter with Dru is picked back up. “Every room is drafty and has about the same view of the forest. They were created equally dreary and prone to triggering a depressive episode.” 

Dru rolls her eyes, though your snide comment isn’t exactly incorrect. “The rooms above the dining hall have always had noise complaints and the ones above the chapel often complain when too much incense is lit during prayer,” Drusa politely informs you, coming to a halt before her bedroom door, which is nearer to the stairwell’s landing than yours. Her hands are folded before her, patiently waiting for whatever rebuff you’re sure to have. 

“What a wonderful, carefree life one must have for those to be _serious complaints_.” 

And there it is. 

Drusa sighs. She’s the one who’ll have to deal with the majority of these complaints before sending only the most important ones off to you, after all. And, oh, does she know just _how much_ people can complain about seemingly inconsequential things. Dee hadn’t warned her that her position in the Spire would require the same amount of bending over backwards as a job in customer service... or gymnastics. “I’ll see you in the morning, dear. Goodnight.” 

“Night, Dru.” 

The magister places a quick kiss on your cheek and you continue down the corridor. Of the ten rooms here that are reserved for the tenured magisters, now only three are occupied. It very well may stay that way, too. The Spire of Duscae, though an architect’s dream if said architect appreciates antiquated design, is an example of form over function. With the most inconvenient and unaccommodating layout, fourteenth floor housing seems more a punishment than a reward for tenure. 

Those ground-floor rooms that are reserved for the housing of disabled students and for classes where students and non-able bodied faculty are in attendance are basically a hot commodity. And it gets you thinking that perhaps you should’ve requested more money for an external lift. Accessibility has always been an issue for the Spire but nobody wanted to ruin the aesthetic™ of this bourgeois college. You’ve no such reservations. 

At your desk, you hastily write out a request for Drusa to get an estimate for the construction of an external elevator, since you’d always heard that it wasn’t feasible to get an elevator installed within the college’s walls. This project will likely be handled by a construction company from Lestallum, the nearest major city. 

“You’re hoping to finally get your elevator?” The daemon wonders, peering over your shoulder. Big brown eyes blink down at your formal request. “Drusa might not be pleased. She’ll argue that you’re pushing your luck, since you just recently pried money out of the Empire’s hand and you’re hardly Iedolas Aldercapt’s favorite person. I agree with her.” 

Mindful of the need for privacy, you glance at your bedroom door to be sure it’s shut. It is. Besides, it’s not likely that anyone will climb fourteen flights of stairs just to eavesdrop. 

“Psh! How’re you _agreeing_ with her when she hasn’t even seen this proposal? Stop trying to rain on my parade with hypothetical scenarios,” you snort and then carefully add a smiley face to your request as an after-thought, hoping Dru won’t be too pissed that you didn’t put this request in with the first one. Look, between an awkward new-hire orientation and trying to rattle the Empire’s cage, you’ve been so busy that you forgot about your old dream for an elevator. 

The daemon chuckles in Orion’s pleasant voice, “Yes. That picture will _certainly_ curb her ire. If I recall, the woman would always smile when she would see your doodles on your assignments.” 

“Really?” Eyes brighten and then you remember yourself. Lips pout and you look at the daemon from beneath your lashes, cheek nestled against your shoulder as you watch the shapeshifter over your shoulder. “Oh. Never mind that. I actually have a favor to ask you.” 

“Oh?” Always so happy when you need something from it; a serial helper; someone who needs to be needed. The daemon smiles prettily and casually leans beside you, against your desk so it can face you properly rather than continuing to hover over your shoulder. “What do you need, (y/n)?” 

What you need is something that you’ve been putting off for a long time. Admittedly, Ravus Nox Fleuret has been little more than a passing thought for you. Between attempting to cover your own trail with regard to your massive necromancy deception and trying in vain to do something worthy of capturing Ardyn’s attention, you tell yourself that there hasn’t been time to look after a grown man who likely hates you because of your close tie to Noct. 

Still, you feel guilty. And the daemon can tell by the way you set your jaw. 

“While I’m out tonight with Lady Lunafreya, I’d like for you to bring me Lord Ravus. The last rumor you told me was that he wasn’t on the outs with Empire, but that’s a total 180 from the first rumor of him being sentenced to _death_. Considering I haven’t heard a peep from my imperial handlers, I’d like to nip this sorry situation in the bud by officially taking Lord Ravus into my protection.” 

“I can assure you right now that he still lives. I’ve kept close watch on him since the execution rumors and, well, I _had_ suggested we do something about him before Leviathan’s trial, so of course I’m not opposed to you fulfilling your duty to the line of the Oracles.” Pale hands shift into a more comfortable reclining position. A soft smile crawls its way onto that moony face. “However...” 

You sigh. Ready for a lecture that you probably totally deserve. 

You’ve never considered Ravus Nox Fleuret outside of the context of his relation to Lunafreya. Even now, you’re ashamed to admit that you don’t do him the justice of thinking of him as his own independent person. Instead, you _don’t_ think: “I need to render aid to Ravus.” You think: “I need to render aid to Ravus because _Luna_ would be devastated if he was harmed.” 

Those lean arms are brought before the daemon so that it may cross them over its chest. “I’m guessing you’ll want him housed with the Oracle, away from the troubles of the world. That’s all well and good, and I’m sure he’ll be so relieved and delighted to see his sister. But have you considered the fact that he may not want to see _you_?” 

“ _Yeah_. But he and I don’t have a problem with each other, as far as I know,” you snap, already far detached from the grieving process everyone else was and _is_ going through. It’s difficult to continue empathizing when you’re nearly a month removed from the event. Especially when you’re blessed with liberating truth... and perhaps drunk off of the hollow reassurances that necromancy can provide. 

Eerily vacant eyes watch you; measure the haughtiness of your posture, a haughtiness that remains even when you’re most exhausted. Such a familiar arrogance. 

“Do recall that he, along with the rest of the world, still believes the Oracle to be dead. _Do recall_ that she was all Lord Ravus had left in the world. When one no longer has anything left to lose, one oft becomes unpredictable.” The daemon speaks from experience and you can hear the wisdom in its words. “He’ll feel relief. But keep in mind that he’s been in mourning for some time and he’ll likely be angry that you kept the Oracle’s true fate a secret while he was left in desolation.” 

Shame burns your cheeks. Uncomfortable, you lean back in your chair and scowl at the request on your desk. The daemon speaks the truth. You know that. It’s not like you haven’t thought about how things might play out once you finally reveal to the world that you raised Lunafreya from the dead and then _hid her_ from everyone, even the people who love her. Most of the time, when you actually consider this inconvenient reality, you think about how this news will impact Noct. 

There will be anger. This is true. There will be questions and tears. But you have a good rapport with Noctis Lucis Caelum. He’s your best friend and you’re sworn to him. Ravus Nox Fleuret, however? He probably couldn’t pick you out of a lineup and the two of you have no relationship whatsoever. There’s no sentiment to still his hand from raising against you. 

“There’s no need to guilt-” 

“This isn’t a ‘guilt trip,’” the daemon interrupts, voice tight. “I’m merely pointing out a possibility. My point is that he might not be in his right mind and considering you ‘used to be’ sworn to the man the Oracle died for and that you now claim to work for the man who wants Lord Ravus dead, he may not be too keen on seeing you and he may strike out against you. Especially when your deceit is revealed.” 

“Oh.” 

Your monosyllabic response hangs in the cool air of the bedroom. It almost seems to stick to the gray stones, remaining for a long time. Clearly the daemon is collecting its thoughts and you do the same. Not really knowing Ravus all that well, you wonder if he’d really be so upset with you for hiding Lunafreya that he’d attack you. Wouldn’t his relief outweigh his anger? Six, you certainly hope so. Especially since he royally owned _Gladio_ the last time you all ran into each other. 

With a grimace at the thought of getting beaten up by Lord Ravus, you fidget in your seat and ask, “Do you really think he’d be _that_ mad? If he loves his sister half as much as you say he does, I like to believe he’d be a bit distracted by the fact that she’s, oh, I dunno, _alive_.” 

The daemon slackens its posture, shoulders softening so that it isn’t standing quite so rigidly. “My primary goal, if that hasn’t been blatantly obvious since we were reunited, is to protect you, (y/n). Even from the people you’re sworn to protect. I can’t claim to predict the man’s behavior. So, I insist on easing him into your grand reveal.” 

“How so?” You ask suspiciously. What kind of “reveal” could the daemon possibly be planning? 

Brown eyes flicker up to the ceiling. “Let’s see... Since I started collecting rumors for you, I’ve been keeping track of the whereabouts of all your persons of interest, with Lord Ravus being one of them. If I set out now, I’m positive I can bring him to you within an hour. Once I fetch him, I’ll bring him to the cottage in a room separate from you and the Oracle.” Now the daemon’s assured gaze falls back onto you. “With Lady Lunafreya present, the risk of him harming you is greatly reduced.” 

You huff a humorless laugh. “Can we get that risk reduced down to zero?” For your snark, the daemon does nothing more than continue to stare. A cringe twists your face and you smartly change the subject. “May I ask how you expect to convince him to come along with you? I know I asked you to bring him to me, but I’d like to know that _tiny_ detail.” 

“Convince?” The way the daemon cocks its head of neatly combed brown hair makes you pinch the bridge of your nose. Sometimes, it’s easy for you to forget exactly _what_ you’re talking to. Not a shred of sympathy for humanity is possessed by this creature and you’re the only one to receive its unwavering love and protection. Although it shares your goals of protecting both the lines of the Kings and the Oracles, it “has” those goals in a very loose sense of the word. 

For instance, it will never choose to aid Noct, Luna, or Ravus above you. It will never abide their mistreatment of you, if they were ever to do such a highly unlikely thing; for the corrupt creature has centered its entire universe around you. You are its obsession. A frightening thing to realize and you’ve yet to realize it. But sometimes, like now, you get just the faintest hint of it. A pernicious thing; you view this behavior in more of a comedic or annoying light than with the severity it deserves. 

“Are you telling me that you were going to _abduct_ him?” The question is asked flatly, your lips pursed and brow creased. 

Big brown eyes blink. “Abduct?” Now it’s just playing dumb. 

“Oh, my gosh. You were gonna club him over the head or something, weren’t you? You were gonna toss him over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes, huh?” 

If the daemon could blush in this skin, it would. Lean arms unfold so the daemon can lean back once more and the creature snaps, “I’ll treat him gently. I’ll inform him that the Mage has summoned him and that you have a great gift to bestow upon him for his compliance.” 

From heavily hooded eyes, you watch the creature fidget. Fingers tug distractedly at the ends of its lavender cardigan, eyes shifty and lips thinned into a hard line. “Right,” you drawl, “but if I find out your interaction with him didn’t go _exactly_ like that, I...” you struggle to think of an appropriate punishment, “won’t let you dress up as Orion for a week.” 

“That’s cruel,” the daemon objects.

Mildly amused, you chuckle, “Uh-huh. Cruel but _appropriate_. It’s exactly the incentive you need to not treat the guy carelessly. Anyway, please take me to Lunafreya and let’s be done with this. It’d be great to have one less thing to worry about.” 

“That’s understandable.” It gestures for you to close your eyes and you quickly comply. When your eyes are shut, it sheds its skin. “I’m glad that you’re entrusting me with this task, (y/n). I’ll be sure to have the Oracle’s brother in your company, safe and sound, before daybreak.” 

So be it. Concern for Ravus is brushed off of your shoulders like pesky lint and you continue on with your nightly routine, with your tea time and chats with Lunafreya. 

The former princess loves these moments. You’re awkward but funny and you always go all wide-eyed when you let an expletive slip, freezing like a deer in headlights no matter how many times she assures you that she’s not the type to faint at cursing (“I’m almost offended that you’d imply such a thing of me with your actions. Oh, (y/n), I was merely _joking_ , please don’t make that face.”). 

Luna is happy to see that you appear to be having fun wreaking havoc in the Spire- your daily events conveyed with wicked-eyed glee and a sinful smirk. You’d blush if she ever said as much. You hate to admit it, but you _have_ been having fun. Fulfilling your duty _shouldn’t_ be fun! But between firing Spire purists and spending the Empire’s money, things have been pretty interesting for you. Not at all like you expected it’d be when you inherited the burdensome duty of running the Spire. 

Your only regret is that you can’t visit Luna as often as you’d like. It’d be far too suspicious to disappear frequently, considering you’re the Arch-Mage. And you’ve told her this. And she’s reassured you time and time again that it’s _fine_. 

Over these seemingly endless and chaotic weeks, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret has served as your anchor. She’s so supportive and stolid without appearing detached, that you don’t even realize that she’s up to something herself. If only you’d take a walk about the house. Can never bring yourself to, always worried about stumbling across something that might remind you of your mother. But in the back room- what used to be the worker’s quarters- there’s a scene from a detective film. 

Lunafreya has painstakingly mapped out your family tree. Not a difficult feat, considering the Spire kept the Iovita family tree fairly pruned as to avoid any surprise mages. 

Luna had concentrated long and hard to recall your family’s history, something she’d needed to learn as the Oracle, as a sign of respect for that seemingly accursed family line. She did it to reassure herself of who exactly stands in your shadow and to try and recall if there were any hints or gleanings that they might have been as involved in another Iovita’s life like they are with you. And she’s waited to see if she might be graced with a divine vision, rather than one spurred on by necromancy. 

For standing vigil so dutifully, for those earnest prayers for aid for the Mage, the Oracle was rewarded with a visit from the Glacian _a day ago_. A visit she won’t tell you about for some time. 

But when Lunafreya isn’t trying to figure out what you’re going to do to damn yourself and turn yourself into the thing she saw in her vision so that she can intercept you and foil your plans, she’s being a _good friend_. Kind, supportive, and not the type of person you’d suspect would be taking careful inventory of all that you say and do in the hopes of puzzling out your plans. 

She’s even the one to remind you to write your friends. More a scolding than anything when she learns you haven’t been keeping in contact, Lunafreya reminds you that they care for you and that a lack of communication on your part might worry them. So, just the other day, you wrote them individual letters, not really catching on to how that might be interpreted wrong. Like, say, you’re writing your last will and testament or something, especially since you use rather somber language. 

In your defense, you were trying to be professional! But that hardly serves to defend the fact that you instructed the daemon to put the letters in everyone’s belongings where they sadly won’t be found until Noctis is gone. The severity in your words won’t raise their spirits. Without you, your comrades have struggled. And they leave you in the dark just as you do to them. For both parties, it’s done out of concern for the other. For both parties, it hurts to be on the receiving end. 

In the warmth of the cottage, that feeling of loneliness and isolation can be forgotten. You can ignore the fact that you haven’t kept in contact with your friends and that they’ve returned the gesture. Maybe one day, you’ll call it even. Especially when you find out that they hid Prompto’s imprisonment from you. That horrible truth is weighed against the truth of what you did to yourself and you’ll all reluctantly agree to let bygones be. 

“Anyway,” you smile in the here and now, basking in the comfort of Luna’s presence, “enough about me. It’s like we always talk about what I’ve been up to during the day. Sure, the approval for funding is _neat_ but I’d like to talk about you. What was it like growing up in Tenebrae? Was Ravus a bossy older sibling? I’ve heard that older siblings can be total asshol- uh, jerks.” 

Pale eyebrows raise at your nervous and highly suspicious word-vomit. It’s like she knows something is up the second you two really settle down in the living room. You’re read like an open book. That, or it’s the fact that you “casually” brought up Ravus for literally no reason. You always overplay your hand with her. Truth be told, you’re kind of excited. For her to no longer be alone? To reveal this secret to one more person? A selfish liberation. 

“Speaking of Ravus, have you heard anything concerning my brother?” Luna wonders, reclining comfortably after staring at you so hard that you’ve begun to sweat. Six, your undershirt is sticking to your damn back. 

Ceramic mugs sit on the old, wooden table that dominates the sitting room of your mother’s childhood home. There are various scratches along its surface and dents at the edges from two careless magelings who enjoyed running around the house playing tag and driving their nannies up the wall. 

Firelight flickers in the hearth, bathing the two of you in comfortable warmth. Luna sits next to you on an overstuffed but sagging loveseat. The thing has been here for decades and it shows. When she was getting settled in this little cottage in the woods, Luna had found gil and the arm of some action figure wedged between the cushion and the back of the loveseat. 

“Actually, yes.” You eye her a moment, watching the way her pale face lights up in cautious hopefulness. “I don’t want you to worry, so I’ll preface this by saying I have the daemon looking for him.” 

Well, unremarkably, that worries the blonde _even more_. It’s already no great secret to you that Luna hates the daemon for whatever reason (Maybe on the grounds that it’s a friggin’ _daemon_?). But what worries her is the fact that that creature clearly has little regard for human life. The only humans it truly cares for, at the heart of it, are the ones descended from it. Not even Noctis with his blood of the Kings truly has the daemon’s loyalty. A fact evident in the creature’s own past. 

So, to hear that you’ve sent what amounts to a misanthrope who is “good” at hiding their cynicism toward humanity whilst in your presence? Lunafreya is apprehensive, to say the least. 

Funny how she knows the daemon’s nature better than you do. Actually, that might be false. 

Though you logically know that the daemon, as such, is corrupt- that being the crux of the nature of all who have fallen to the scourge- you’ve come to ignore that. A blind eye is turned to that fact. Such an easy thing to ignore when the creature has been nothing but helpful. How easily you’ve brushed aside your memory of it eating a man alive to steal his skin. 

“Why are you seeking him out, (y/n)?” Luna picks up her mug and takes a sip. Blue eyes stare fixedly at you. “And why do you feel the need to preface your statement with such an assurance?” 

A little thing about Lunafreya Nox Fleuret: She’s nobody’s fool. Though you’re an expert at hiding your emotions- a career deceiver- she had to live with liars after Tenebrae fell into the Empire’s grasp. The former princess will definitely agree that you’re in a class all your own when it comes to effortless lying _but_ you’re not very good at lying to the people you care for. An indication of your goodness: the moral liar. 

“Well...” Teeth gnaw at your bottom lip. Damn Luna has one hell of a stare. One hell of a poker face, too. There isn’t anything accusatory in her gaze but the intensity of her expression, even still so open, almost seems to dare you to lie. “After your death, it was discovered that he betrayed the Empire, as he had no intentions of capturing you or Noctis. So, the emperor called for his execution.” 

A statue might move more than Lunafreya in this moment. “Execution?” 

You blurt, “And _this_ is why I said I’m having him found. My plan is to have him housed here until the Crystal is secured and Noctis is in a better position to have Ravus brought into the fold, so to speak. Obviously Noct isn’t gonna want your brother _executed_ for his crimes against Lucis. I mean, talk about an overreaction. Anyway, Noct’ll pardon Ravus and they’ll discuss the details of where your brother will ‘fit’ in the kingdom. Probably ruling Tenebrae once everything- Okay, I can see from the look on your face that you think I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry.” 

Six, you’re practically breathless. For someone who can wind you down so easily, Lunafreya sure can wind you up just as effortlessly. And she doesn’t really have to even say anything to do it. It’s all in a look. From simmering stares to dazzling smiles. Right now, as words are pouring from your mouth like you’re a broken faucet, it’s the former. Thankfully, the kindly blonde waits a moment for you to catch your breath before grilling you. 

The picture of regal elegance, ever the well-bred lady, Lunafreya tilts her head and crosses her legs at the ankles. Crystal blue eyes blink once, slowly. “You really trust the daemon to keep him safe?” 

“Yes. Completely.” You nod emphatically. “They’ve constantly reminded me of my duty to your family, Luna. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt you or your brother.” 

A stern gaze rakes over you. Lunafreya trusts you but, obviously, not the daemon. However, there’s nothing to be done about it now. You’ve gone behind her back with this bizarre rescue mission and she can’t say she’s mad that it’s happening. Luna is relieved to hear that her brother is going to taken out of harm’s way. It’s the “rescuer” with whom she takes issue. 

Lithe fingers tuck a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. Her voice is low but modulated. “Then I trust your judgment, (y/n). Not to seem impertinent, but do you have any idea as to how long this will take? How long has the daemon been searching for my brother?” 

“It’s only been about an hour. They’re really good at tracking people, so I’d guess that we’ll be hearing back any time now. I’ll be put at ease once he’s away from the Empire. Plus, you’ll finally have company.” 

“Hm.” The former princess hums her agreement, though she knows she’s going to have a lot of explaining to do to Ravus since he’s going to inevitably see her work room. 

Also, contrary to what you believe, Luna _isn’t_ lonely here. It’s a frivolous worry of yours that she can never placate. At first she got a little stir crazy but she’s no stranger to imprisonment. Add in a couple of divine visits and the former princess hasn’t wanted for attention. My, the great burden of wisdom that Gentiana had bestowed upon her. It was more than Lunafreya bargained for, considering the gods are typically so cryptic in their revelations. 

Even thinking about it _now_ … Looking at _you_... Luna shakes her head at herself and sips her tea before asking if you’d like your coffee freshened up. You politely brag that you can heat the mug up yourself. The Oracle watches the soulless Mage use their precious magic for something so mundane. She almost corrects you, knowing what she knows. But she feels that’s something she’ll need to soften you toward. 

“(y/n),” Luna begins, a patient smile on her lips, “about that enchantment you created for your soul...” 

When Shiva visited, the Glacian knew that the Oracle did not benefit from an excess of time, even if time seemed to drag on for her. In Ramuh’s inaction and Ifrit’s growing restlessness, Shiva foresaw an avoidable and senseless danger. Though she allowed the daemonic Iovita to bargain for the Oracle’s body in order to placate the Mage, that corrupt creature has reneged on its end of the deal. The necromancy was performed but the daemon persisted in its exploitative behavior. 

What did she expect from someone so self-serving? Its love for you, after all, only stems from your remarkable resemblance to itself back in its halcyon days. And now it seeks to lead you down a destructive path because of that indulgence. No self-awareness is to be had in a half-rotted mind. For the daemon, you don’t exist in reality. You only exist in Iovita’s fantasies. Of course it wouldn’t see beyond your stunning visage to the sorrow it has sowed within you with this pernicious obsession. 

At first, the Glacian thought to allow things to play out a little longer. Perhaps, this time around, Iovita would see the error of their ways. 

She had such high hopes for Ramuh’s hand; the divine creature that laid with a human to spawn its own bloodline; the one who turned on Ramuh to embrace Ifrit and shirked their duty to the King and broke their promise to the Lucis Caelum bloodline all because they were loyal to someone else. But nothing has really changed. Both Ramuh and Ifrit made sure of that in the immense cruelty of their rejection of Iovita when the Mage was in their darkest hour. 

Shiva has watched that wretched being who is now perpetually stuck in time- frozen in death’s embrace. The soul is too corrupt for anything to be done. Ramuh could simply wipe Iovita out of existence but he never will. Ifrit could kill the fallen Mage but he enjoys how Iovita’s wretchedness makes Ramuh hurt. And Shiva? She could never bring herself to fell the creature before it can attain redemption. That would be too cruel. Except sometimes the Glacian doubts that redemption can be had. 

Iovita is still taking souls, after all. Back to those old ways. Back to repeating everything they ever did that led up to their corruption: Striking bargains for souls, hounding the Accursed’s steps for his attention, trying to impose themselves on those of their bloodline. It’s the same cycle that had the Glacian visit Aela the Banisher and entreat her to banish her daemonic ancestor to another realm where it couldn’t so easily invade the dreams of its descendants. 

But you’re here now. A bit of a distraction, a reprieve from the suffocating depression created by years of isolation. Shiva believed that Ramuh, too, was granting Iovita that last chance at redemption by gracing the world with you. He allowed the King of Kings’ Mage to look exactly like Iovita’s chosen human form- their _favorite_ form. And that visage stoked something within Iovita. Old memories have been brought to life. Slowly but surely, the old Mage remembers. 

Yet, still, the daemon takes souls. Those memories aren’t coming back fast enough and that, the Glacian quickly realized, has paved the road to your ruin. 

It’s a damned cycle that nobody seems to want to break. And now the Glacian has put the axe in the Oracle’s hands so she may break the chain. 

“What about the spell?” You wonder, still heating your mug. It’s slow going. Fire magic usually is, since the element is so volatile. It requires patience and can’t be hurried along by even the most skilled of mages. Your curiosity is piqued. Lunafreya hasn’t ever wanted to discuss the enchantment since you first laid out your plan and she disapproved of it. 

The pale column of her throat jerks in a careful swallow. Your eyes zero in on it which makes color rise to her cheeks. “I think you ought to finally reverse it. Noctis would understand that this isn’t the type of spell anyone should maintain for so long.” 

Now you’re frowning. Oh, you _knew_ she was gonna try and talk you out of it. 

But before you can bolster yourself for an argument, you feel it. A tickle on your brain. A strange buzzing in your blood. Both precede a voice entering your mind to mingle with your own thoughts. “ _I apologize for the delay. Traveling always takes longer with light souls. I’ve just arrived with Lord Ravus. He complied with your wishes, as I’m sure he’ll confirm to you himself. Simply give the order and he shall be brought to you and the Oracle._ ” 

Anger is snuffed out by an anxious type of excitement. Luna’s given a bit of whiplash by how quickly you go from pouting like a petulant child to beaming. And then she’s given whiplash once more with what you do next. 

To tell the truth, after initially giving Noctis your soul, you never felt the absence of that part of you. Compared to the sense of "wrongness" and fear that the spell first evoked, the long-term feeling was an inconsequential type of discomfort that was easily ignored- easily grown accustomed to. It wasn’t anything like what you first felt- that horrible coldness, that terrible emptiness. And it isn’t anything like what you feel now. 

You know that Noct is gone- either dead or somewhere else- before anyone tells you. You know it because you _feel_ it. Like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over your head, you’re in the middle of talking to Lunafreya, casually heating up your mug of coffee, when it happens. 

Nothing Lumis wrote could've prepared you for this. He didn't have any experience with having his soul out of his body for longer than a few months and he definitely didn't attach his soul to someone who ended up in another realm. But you thought you had to do this. Unable to lend your allies your magic in the way Noctis does, you pulled out all the stops for him. Because this isn't merely _magic_ that you're lending. He has your soul and you'll pay his blood price for him. The world will use you up and, when you think of the alternative, you'll be glad of it. 

In the moment, however, you're anything but happy. 

You freeze. Expression unmoving, eyes unblinking. Paralyzed as that most important and intimate part of you is separated from you for good. An axe comes down on the tie that bound you to Noctis and it’s severed completely, leaving you alone. And then it’s like there’s an explosion inside of you. Fire and pain, like you’re burning from the inside out. Intestines curl and blood congeals. Skin grows cold even as that fire rages on beneath your skin. An unnatural creature can never feel natural. 

You don’t even realize that you’re screaming until Lunafreya is panicking, eyes so wide, begging to know what’s wrong. You don’t even realize that you’ve just made your mug of coffee explode in your own hands, cutting your palms. The second Luna touches you, pale hands enclosing around one of your bleeding hands, the pain amplifies tenfold and everything goes black just as Ravus and the daemon come bursting into the room.


	63. 24. Fallen (RR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no Noct route for this chapter and it's for a good reason. Anyway, this is angsty stuff as we get closer and closer to the end of this way-too-long fic. Luna’s Astral meetings and the daemon’s little tête-à-tête with Ravus will also be posted as a brief side stories later on. 
> 
> I'd like to apologize in advance for how crappy this chapter is. The pacing is odd and the next chapter will pick up a little strangely in comparison because of the perspective changes. Anyway, all that aside, I hope y'all enjoy this. 
> 
> **Warnings:** Language, Intense Tense Flippage, Heavy-Handed Angst, Prompto Has HAD IT, Devious Daemons, Flashbacks, Mage Mayhem, Look I Swear There's a Happy Ending, Regrets, Iggy Needs a Break, Gladio Might Be Too Stoic, Revenge Plot???, Protective Magisters, A Bad First Meeting

**24\. Fallen**

With Noctis gone and Ardyn seemingly AWOL, there’s no reason for your friends _not_ to come to you. It seems a fitting thing to do- to spirit you away from that den of vipers now that your staged defection benefits no one. It’d all happened so suddenly, Noct going away. Logically, they all knew that there needed to be some sacrifice on the royal’s behalf. It was just… sudden. And you hadn’t even been there for it.

The whole trip here to the Spire, they tried to come up with a proper way to break the news to you, unaware that you already know that Noct is gone- knew it the second it happened. The silence on your end is mistaken as being part of your continued ruse. No one, not the spy who was planted by Lucian forces or the complicit Magister Drusa, has told them about the state that you’re in.

Much like Noct’s housing in the Crystal, it doesn’t seem a proper thing to be declared over phone or via coded message. The severity of the situation warrants a more personal telling. Drusa Alomar won’t tell your friends that you’ve been rendered comatose because you inadvertently made yourself a _thrall_ to Noctis Lucis Caelum.

When she was first told this, she didn’t believe it. That wasn’t her fault, though. The information was, after all, relayed by a man whom she thought had been dead for well over a decade: Orion Spiros, the only magister in Spire history to go missing on campus; vanished as if into thin air. But seeing that tall man standing at the foot of your bed with you unconscious therein, something had turned her stomach.

It was in his face; something decidedly detached and cold in those dark, dark eyes. It was in the way his mouth moved when he spoke, like it was part of a mask; uncanny, stilted, slightly _off_. All at once, those rumors about you- the ones she heard when you were a child- came crashing down on the magister. All at once, she came to the horrifying realization that the thing that stood at the foot of your bed, standing vigil, was _not_ a man.

“Soulless.”

One word and Drusa Alomar’s world fell apart. A warning was imparted: that you cannot use magic in excess lest you’ll begin to incur what the daemon called a “cosmic debt.” Without the owner of your soul in the same realm as your mortal body, you’ll wither and you’ll come to beg for the release of death, even if that means you won’t reach the afterlife but will instead fade into oblivion. No closure. The only type of release for something so wretched and accursed.

She’d cried for days in her office, by your bed, almost everywhere. Her one job was to protect you but the magister hadn’t known that she’d need to protect you from _yourself_. How was she to know what that secretive mage was cooking up? Not even your best friends knew. But they’ll know now. And Drusa prepares herself to be stoic when meeting your friends for the first time. She tells herself not to blame them. She tells herself that she’s just as culpable for not stopping you, for not looking after you. There will be enough suffering to go around, anyway. 

Now the world of another will crumble to pieces like hers.

* * *

**Prompto**

He’s dreamed of this for a while: seeing you again. 

A wistful smile curls his lips and Prompto carefully guides Ignis behind the Lucian spy who had helped them enter the Spire undetected. Prompto fully intends on embarrassing you, which is such an easy thing to do. Well, easy for _him_ to do. All it takes is a public peck on the cheek or the sudden grabbing of your hand in his; lacing his fingers through yours and pressing his body into your side. You’ll blush or stutter. Maybe he’ll get lucky and you’ll do _both_. Prompto grins at the thought. 

Almost foolishly giddy, he fails to detect the severity evident in every hard line of the spy’s body. The woman has acted the part of a funeral goer ever since she cracked open the slotted door to the college’s scullery and mutely beckoned the trio in. She exchanged a few hushed words with Gladiolus, gaze cast respectfully over Ignis, and then the group was taken into a pantry and behind a heavy shelf that covered an entrance to a dark, narrow passageway. 

All the while, Prompto can think of nothing but seeing you in person again and taking you away from this place. Six, he’s needy. Clingy, pouty, and totally in denial about it all. Yet he always seeks you out- petulantly tells himself he _won’t_ when you cheekily comment on his clinginess but does it all again anyway. He’s just someone who loves to be touched, and not even in a sexual way (at least, not _always_ ). Before you two made it official, he settled for awkward pats on the back or the arm. 

And, over time, you reciprocated the friendly gestures albeit a bit oddly. Your trembling, sweaty hand would sometimes come into direct contact with his bare, freckled shoulder and he’d giggle about it later to Noct like a lovestruck schoolboy. “They were so _nervous_! It was _cute_!” Then there was a large swath of no contact after he accidentally smacked your ass at camp for all to see but the indiscretion was eventually brushed aside and arm linking ensued. 

Prom would do it for no reason, his random arm linking. Walking out in the wilderness, he’d loop his arm through yours and walk in step with you, chatting about everything and nothing. Tips of his ears would burn bright pink but the shutterbug would act aloof. “Ya hear what Iggy’s making for dinner? Man, I’m _so_ looking forward to it.” Then he’d bump his side against yours, a disarming joke on his tongue and mirth in those blue eyes that always sought your approval. 

For a while, he knew he had a crush on you. I mean, it was _obvious_. And even if it hadn’t been obvious, a “crush” from dear Prompto isn’t a very shocking thing. Prompto Argentum has never been the sort to be out of touch with his own feelings. He knows himself well, or at least he thought he did. Always conflating fleeting crushes for genuine love, he felt sick when he realized that he _actually loved you_. Truly. Deeply. It was a frightening realization. 

Because he’s no stranger to rejection. How many people flat out told him to get lost with Noct wincing off in the background? After a while, those rejections lost their bite. It became a sort of expectation for the blond- for his advances to be brushed off or stomped out. However, those rejections weren’t rejections of _love_. Prompto knew if you turned him away, it would hurt. But then you did no brushing and there was no stomping. Your hand traveled down the arm linked with yours so you could hold his. 

Much kissing followed, of course. It was to be expected of the passionate (but very awkward) blond. You were his first and some part of him always said to himself that you would be his last. Yet Prompto knew, realistically, that first loves almost never last. He’d resigned himself to that bitter fact almost immediately- long before the relationship even got serious. He told himself to get real, to be honest with himself. “Why the heck would someone like (y/n) settle for someone like _me_?” 

Still, even with more self-doubt than what’s healthy, _this_ happened. A crush became more. Feelings grew impossibly strong, _unrealistically_ strong. Rational, self-doubting Prompto Argentum fell in love. _Madly_ in love. To the point that he’d grow ill with worry when you’d go off on hours-long herb hunts all by yourself like you were invincible. At first, he just thought what he was feeling when you’d leave was the “normal” kind of worry. It had to be, right? 

But there was one time when you were gone for nearly an entire day with no contact- absolutely _none_. Prompto hadn’t known that you’d texted Noct because Noct didn’t bother to say anything to anyone since no one expressed any concern. Oh, Prompto had been _livid_ with you. With you both! He’d gone all red in the face after throwing his arms around you and hugging you so tight when you finally returned to the group’s shared motel room. 

Stepping back, arms falling to his sides, he blinked rapidly at your unmoved expression when the hug went unreturned. Those wicked eyes didn’t betray a single emotion. You’d gone stiff in his embrace and remained that way even after he released you. The air in the room grew thick with tension and his face heated up at your perceived impassivity toward his concern. In that moment, with all eyes on him and his heaving chest, he wasn’t sure why he was so angry or why he wanted to cry. 

Perplexed by such strange emotions, he abruptly exited the room and sat on the motel’s roof for an hour. 

He hadn’t ever felt like _that_ before. Gladiolus had gone off on his own for _days_ and he didn’t text or call anyone and Prom wasn’t the slightest bit mad about _that_. Sometimes Noct was really bad about texting back and that never was a problem. Was he upset about your reaction? Later, you’d tell him you were just shocked that he seemed to think something horrible had happened to you and the moment was laughed off. Or so you thought. 

Prom couldn’t stop thinking about that feeling after he saw you: Overwhelming relief and some bitter type of anger. That’s what it was. It made tears sting his eyes with this overpowering feeling of immense relief but at the same time he was so _angry_ at you for not considering him or his feelings or _anyone else’s_ feelings, really. All of that was stirred up- kicked up like sand in the tide- from a stupid trip for herbs. 

So, imagine how he feels _now_ when faced with yet another example of your selfishness- with your disregard for him and his feelings as you play the part of the dutiful Mage; with you lying unresponsive in bed, looking so small and fragile. There’s an ashen quality to your skin, lips chapped and chest barely moving. Prompto freezes in the doorway when he sees you- too afraid to move and confirm this as his new reality- earning himself a stony look from the magister who was waiting outside your door for them all. 

Then he runs to you. 

Not a second thought is spared for Ignis and Gladiolus, or the apprehensive magister, or the shadowy figure that waits in the corner of the room. The blond doesn’t care that he has an audience as he falls to his knees at your bedside, heart lodged somewhere in his throat. It doesn’t take him long to realize that he isn’t going to get a stutter or a blush out of you. Still, he paws beneath the blanket and grabs your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "(y/n)?" His voice cracks. 

You’re as cold as ice to the touch. 

“How long has (y/n) been like this?” The Shield asks, speaking for the sharpshooter who can’t seem to find his voice anymore. He knows his friend well enough to know that he’s working through a lump in his throat. Callused fingertips try in vain to rub some warmth into your clammy skin. Panic steadily rises in Prompto until he begins to feel as though he can’t breathe. 

The magister who has worked in conjunction with the Lucian spy, Dr. Drusa Alomar, responds coolly as she closes the door behind herself, seeing the spy out, “A few days.” 

“Do you know what brought it on?” Ignis asks. Your condition had been whispered in his ear by Gladio after they entered your old Spire bedroom and the Shield had had enough time to look at you. The strategist only knows that you’re unconscious and that you look deathly ill. That isn’t much to go off of. Add in the time-frame and... Well, Iggy isn’t sure what sort of illness could’ve taken hold of you. As long as he’s known you, you’ve always been in great health. It was always _Prompto_ who caught colds. 

Finally, the daemon steps out of the shadows, wearing that pretty man’s pale skin. It carefully folds its hands behind its back and confesses in a voice as sweet as honeyed wine, “(y/n) was going to tell you _eventually_ , so I suppose there’s no real harm in revealing this.” Dark eyes fall on each of your friends in turn and the daemon confesses, “(y/n), in order to aid His Highness in his quest, bestowed upon him something invaluable; something to bolster his magic and give him strength. They gave him their soul.” 

There’s a visible jolt through the room, partly due to the sudden intrusion and partly due to what was just revealed. 

Prompto stands quickly, blue eyes dark and narrowed. “ _You_.” 

After the blond had been rescued from the keep in Gralea, he’d told his friends of Orion’s presence and how the mage left him there. The Shield doesn’t think _now_ is the time or the place to deal with that beef. Instead, the brunet keeps a level head and darts his amber eyes between Drusa and Orion, both of whom appearing to know exactly what’s going on. “What?” 

Pink lips twist into a conventionally attractive smile. “I’m certain (y/n) told you of binding magic before? It’s an enchantment-” 

“Soul stealing,” Prompto suddenly says, staring down at the impassive face of his lover. He remembers every little thing that you ever told him- even the stuff that you insisted was nonsense. He swallows hard, throat suddenly feeling bone dry. “They said it was all rumors by the Spire. That Lumis the Enchanter had been accused of stealing souls for his spells but that it was a _lie_.” 

Knowledgeable enough about reading a room, the daemon decides not to push its luck and remains on the opposite side of the bedroom from Prompto Argentum. “It _was_ ,” it insists heatedly. “Lumis never took anything that wasn’t offered and he never kept a single soul. (y/n) ignored the warnings of their ancestor but this,” a thin hand gestures toward your immobile form, “was an unforeseen consequence.” 

“They knew there’d be consequences,” murmurs Ignis. The prince’s retainer recalls a conversation he had with you one night in Altissia. How foreboding you’d been, yet he couldn’t determine why. He can see you now with that soft smile on your lips and your downcast eyes, refusing to look at him. You’d asked for forgiveness. You’d asked for understanding. Ignis is unsure if these things will be given. 

Drusa looks on soberly as Orion emphatically says, “They would _die_ for their king and country, yes, but this is not death. (y/n) walks with the gods and will return to the part of themselves that remains in this realm.” 

This conversation has already been had between the magister and the daemon. It was there, standing at the foot of your bed, when she came in to check on you because you had missed all of your morning appointments. A great shock, seeing _that_ face again. He hadn’t aged a day after more than a decade and Drusa just _knew_. All of those rumors about Decima’s strange child came flooding back and she _knew_. How funny, all the things she can take in stride as long as she’s promised that you’ll be okay… or mostly okay.

“What do you mean?” Ignis wonders, brow furrowed at that confusing statement. _You’re_ walking with the _gods_? Is Orion saying that you’re alive or not? 

“Prince Noctis took (y/n)’s soul with him into the realm of the gods. Creatures can live without souls- (y/n) has done it for weeks- but right now they’re being pulled in two different directions. Two realms now claim two different parts of (y/n) and (y/n) is currently with Prince Noctis and their soul,” explains the daemon, as matter of fact as can be given the circumstances. The lecturer’s tone that it’s so accustomed to using with you when it teaches you these things isn’t appreciated by your friends. 

“What do you mean by that?” Prompto is growing increasingly incensed. Fingers twist in the sheet, tugging it just below where it was tucked beneath your chin. Drusa crosses her arms. Not a fraction of a movement goes unnoticed by those carnelian eyes. But Prompto doesn’t care about any of that. He doesn’t care about the bed sheets or the magister or the mage. He cares about _you_ and learning the _truth_. “What do you mean by _any_ of that? How the hell is it possible for (y/n) to lose their soul?!” 

“It’s _not lost_ ,” Orion snaps. “His Highness has it and only he can return it to the body. In essence, (y/n) is enthralled to him. But that’s beside the point. I’m _trying_ to assuage your fears. This comatose state is temporary. When Prince Noctis crossed realms, (y/n) was pulled in that direction- their consciousness moved with him. It may seem like a few minutes to (y/n), but rest assured that they _will_ return to this realm to fulfill their duty. They won’t stay away. Not when there’s so much to do.” 

The daemon is thoroughly exasperated. 

My, is the blond one insatiable when usually he’s so... _chipper_. For one so corrupt and entrenched in dangerous and arcane magic, the daemon really doesn’t see what the big deal is. Humans are always so odd about time, though- about the passage of it, always clinging to it as if they can make it stay through sheer might alone. Perhaps it’s because the daemon can still speak to you that it doesn’t take your loss so hard? Perhaps it’s because it doesn’t share Prompto’s guilt over abandoning you in the Spire that it doesn’t have the same aching pain in its heart like he does? 

“In the meantime.” Drusa gestures toward the door stiffly. She's been standing beside it the whole time, eyes almost unblinking like a feral cat. Your friends turn toward her, confused. Anger dissipates, replaced by shock. She’s kicking them out? As if reading their mind, Drusa confirms this by opening the door with one elegant movement, face as stoic as it has been since they all showed up to see you. One dark hand gestures toward the empty doorway. “Now that you've visited, I trust you can find your way out. Go the way you came." 

Unsure of the tone they’re all receiving from an agent who has, thus far, been nothing less than cooperative with the Lucian rebellion, Ignis is dumbfounded by Drusa’s coldness. “Are you telling us to leave?” 

“Without (y/n)?” Prompto’s cheeks flush splotchily. “No. No way is that-!” 

“You’re enemies of the Empire.” Her words cut like a paring knife- quick and precise. “Persona non grata, if you will.” 

Gladiolus glowers. “You’re out of your damn mind.” 

Her eyes turn sharp. 

Texts had told her all about your friends. There had been photos and funny videos with various locales as the backdrop of these forged friendships. Once, she looked forward to meeting them and her greeting would have been warm and enthusiastic. But now? Drusa is conflicted in her feelings. Decima’s death is still a fresh and bleeding wound. How readily her friend had died for her king wasn’t as awe-inspiring for her as it was for the rebels that Dru has accommodated. Where others saw a hero, Drusa saw such a terrible waste of life. She saw tragedy. 

Now her child lies comatose due to the repercussions of a horrible spell. Her child will have to learn to live without magic _if_ they wake up. Her child will have to live with a tarnished reputation _if_ they wake up. And why? Why did this happen? It happened because of your cursed loyalty- just like your mother. Because of how you cling to duty and honor, you barely cling to life. Drusa won’t have your chances of recovering ruined by the people she can’t help but blame for all of this. 

“It’s because I’m well within my right mind that I’m ordering you out. (y/n) has a cover to maintain and I _cannot_ risk them being moved, therefore I _cannot_ risk this campus suddenly turning hostile toward them while they’re in this state. You may have a spy planted here but that’s _six_ certain allies against _dozens_ upon _dozens_ of mercenaries hired directly by Chancellor Izunia on top of the magitek soldiers.” The magister gathers herself up to her full height and commands, “ _Leave_. You three sneaked past security and made your way up here to confront the Arch-Mage. You were stopped but you escaped before the guards that I called could arrive.” 

The daemon turns to Drusa, eyebrows raised. “Did you really call the guards?”

The magister brushes by Prompto and sits stiffly at your bedside. Tapered fingertips tug at the bedsheet before smoothing it out where Prompto had fisted it in his hand. She swallows hard, looking down at your serene face. “Yes.” 

He wants to curse her. Prompto wants to damn the woman that you often spoke of like another mother straight to hell. But before he can do something that he might regret once he’s not so emotional, the Shield is grabbing him by the elbow and yanking him along. Cold brown eyes watch them go before turning onto the stoic magister. It watches her for a moment longer before the daemon returns its gaze to the doorway, standing vigil for the swiftly approaching guards. 

This isn’t the end. Prompto will be damned if it is. 

Prompto comes to a sudden halt in the woods, causing Gladiolus to swear at him. Turning around, the blond glares up at the Spire as it looms overhead in the dark night. Air rushes into his lungs, legs aching from that hasty escape. The clanging of armor and jostling of guns gets the sharpshooter to finally turn back around and keep running. The thought of leaving you behind in there after everything you told him about that place... A fire burns inside of him even as he angrily wipes tears from his splotchy, freckled cheeks. They haven’t seen the last of him in the Spire. 

* * *

**Ignis**

Comfort. 

One little thing that most people take for granted and Ignis Scientia seeks it from you. In the wake of what transpired in Gralea, with Noctis gone, he wants _comfort_. You always give it so easily, so readily. For someone who lacked in social prowess, that seemed a shocking thing about you. But your ability to read people has always been able to benefit others in strange ways like that. 

Once, you grabbed his hand under the table at lunchtime and he was so shocked that he swallowed an ice cube from his soda. He _knew_ not insisting on the waiter getting him a straw from the back room was a mistake, but he hadn’t wanted to be a bother. That affectionate gesture of yours wasn’t without reason- you didn’t make him choke at random. It had been a long day and you noticed a bit of a slouch to Iggy’s posture. That was all. That was enough to make Ignis’ heart melt. 

Throughout your journeys together you’ve both come to rely on each other. There was safety in his presence and acceptance in yours. Cryptically, you revealed your troubles and, under a veil of innuendo, he spoke of his. That wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. The two of you thought, for a time, that that was good enough. Watching your back in battle made Ignis feel like he repaid you some unspoken debt for bringing him comfort. But feelings aren’t a commodity to be bartered with. 

As he waits outside with Prompto and Gladiolus on the Spire’s grounds for a signal from the Lucian spy that the rebel forces had had planted amongst the college's staff, he recalls a conversation he’d had with you. Well, it was less a conversation and more like you talking at him in that sphinx-like way of yours. 

“This can’t be all that there is,” you’d murmured, tending to the campfire while Noct and Prompto slept in the tent and Gladio was out for an early-morning run. There was a nip in the air, tall Douglas firs imposing around the stone campground. Ignis looked to where you knelt by the fire, your back to him. He was prepping meat that was marinated overnight for an omelette. Already, this didn’t feel like your usual type of lighthearted chatter. 

“What are you talking about?” 

“My role...” you sighed, “what I _do_ for Noctis and for the betterment of our kingdom. It can’t just be restricted to following Noctis around with the hopes that _maybe_ he’ll have a use for me.” You glanced over your shoulder at him, expression mildly apologetic. “Not to say that I mind being by his side. But when there are other known threats to his well-being in particular, threats that I have the potential to avert or otherwise neutralize? Following him around begins to feel like a disservice to him. To everyone, really.” 

With a cup of freshly brewed coffee in hand, Ignis made his way to you. The smell of sizzling meat began to permeate the air. “From what I’ve read of your family, your magic isn’t without limits. How can you possibly be aware of _all_ threats and keep Noctis insulated, for lack of a better word?” He was trying to be supportive in his own way by making you see the ridiculousness of the lofty goals you set for yourself. All he got was a snort. 

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me. But that doesn’t mean my _creativity_ is limited.”

Coffee exchanged hands. Ignis fixed you with a stern frown. “Is that what’s been keeping you up all night?” 

“No,” you chuckled softly, lips smiling against the mouth of your cup. “That would be herbalism and my desire for money.” 

“Do you have a plan with regard to your arduous, self-ascribed task of protecting Noctis from unseen threats?” 

“They aren’t wholly unseen and my plan is still in its formative stages. Hopefully by the time it’s complete, you’ll be a little less sassy about it.” 

Iggy faked a scandalized gasp, “A _little_?” 

You grinned then and it reached your eyes. “Yes. I know how difficult that will be for you but I have faith in you.” You always were great at avoiding actually having to talk about your problems. You always were great at making it seem like you were open and honest- just saying enough to where your friends felt like they were in the loop but not saying enough at all. Your illusory words were so easy to buy as the real deal. 

At the time that that conversation took place, Titan had been putting Noct through so much pain. You were lamenting your inability to render aid. Helpless was how you felt. _Scorned_ was how Ignis wound up. Though you hadn’t meant to, you shamed him in a way on that day; speaking of grand schemes and lofty plans that he knew he’d never be privy to. You set yourself above everyone else- beyond even Ignis’ grasp. Even as his feelings for you deepened, the distance between the two of you remained. 

Call him a hypocrite. He calls himself that already. Begrudging you your emphatic call to duty even after what he did to himself- what he sacrificed for Noctis’ sake? At least he apologized to you after, he thinks. At least he was sorry. At least there was no other way. At least he didn’t leave you and Noctis and everyone else behind in one great, selfless, stupid act. 

Coming to the Spire of Duscae was a mistake. Leaving you there was the biggest one. 

All of the warning signs were there for him: your erratic, almost manic behavior and the secrets you clung to. But he could ignore it all for the charming mage and their sweet smiles. He could ignore it all for the way you proved yourself to be an invaluable and loyal ally. He could ignore it all for the comfort you brought him. But no such comfort will be had today or for many, many years to follow. 

The air in the Spire is cold and there’s a sharpness to it that Ignis can’t place. He’s guided through a narrow passage, Prompto’s hand firm against his elbow. The Lucian spy granted them entry and showed them the way, but it’s a magister by the name of Drusa Alomar who sees them quietly to you, voice hushed the moment they exit a secret passageway so as to go unseen by the staff who are conveniently housed on the college’s lower levels. 

Before they even arrived here at the illustrious magical college, they were given the all-clear that they could gain access to the Arch-Mage. You had no meetings scheduled and there was no chance that the chancellor would be in the area. But there was no word back on if you were expecting them; if you were going to agree to leave with them and call off your self-assigned job. Any inquiries made by Ignis went unanswered. At the time, Iggy simply thought it normal. These correspondences had to be short, after all. In fact, most were coded. Six, Gladiolus hated using the cypher. 

So, it’s with restrained hope that Ignis climbs all those stairs for you, only briefly lamenting his loss of vision and how he’s unable to see the mysterious Spire of Duscae- your childhood home. 

The restrained nature of his hope guards him against Drusa’s words. Her strong voice suddenly says, right as she gets to your closed bedroom door, “Before we enter, I should warn you all that (y/n) fell ill a few days ago.” 

Ignis listens as that somber voice floats along the cold, dead air. It’s far too dark in the corridor for him to make out any distinguishable shapes. Nothing more than a vast, all-encompassing black surrounds him. Movement can barely be detected- a ripple off in the periphery. All is silent in the wake of Magister Drusa’s hushed confession until Ignis breaks it. “Ill? In what way?” Questions the prince’s retainer, frustrated that the others don’t speak. He can’t see the look on the woman’s face, shrouded in shadow. If he could, he, too, would be too frightened to speak. 

There’s a pregnant pause. Prompto’s grip on Ignis’ elbow increases. 

“They’re unconscious and completely unresponsive. I’m only allowing you to visit.” A huff of breath comes from the magister. Ignis hears the shifting of fabric as she crosses her arms. “You’ll not move (y/n) from this place. Not now.” And then there’s a burst of light that floods into the corridor, chasing away the shadows. Now Ignis can make out the mess of orange-washed color that is the magister and the Shield. Prompto still stands behind him, ever vigilant. 

Not a sound of life can be heard from within the room. An ever-present flicker attempts to micmic the movement of life but the strategist won’t be fooled by a fireplace. “Take me to them,” he orders and Prompto complies with only a moment of hesitation. Every now and then, Ignis’ cane catches a groove in the centuries-old floor. _Click_ , _click_ , _click_ becomes the backdrop of a memory that will haunt him for years to come. 

“This way,” Prompto murmurs, careful not to police his friend’s movements too much. Blue eyes struggle to look at you. You look... ghastly. You look like you’re _dead_ \- skin ashen and lips cracked, eyes closed and oddly sunken. Prom swallows hard as he and Iggy draw nearer. Gladiolus remains by the door with the magister. “Almost there.” 

There’s pressure on his shoulders as Ignis is guided to sit on a chair by your bedside. It’s where Drusa has sat for days, waiting for you to wake up. Wood bites into the backs of Iggy’s thighs. Foggy eyes scan what’s before him, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. It’s all for naught. 

There hasn’t been much improvement in his vision since his injury and the poor lighting does him no favors. 

Gloves are removed. He reaches forward, fingers lightly touching the top of a plush blanket. He can feel the shape of your arm. His hand travels lower, slips below the cover to grasp your hand in his. Breath catches in his throat. You’re as cold as ice and there’s a strange “solidness” to your skin as if you’ve been turned to stone. If he didn’t know any better, Ignis would think he’s touching an ice sculpture and not the hand of his lover. Lips move for a second before anything comes out. “What happened?” Luckily for him, his voice is even. 

A familiar voice answers and Ignis catches sight of a strange ripple across the bed from him as someone comes forward. Ignis hadn't sensed the other person in the room nor had anyone mentioned him. “(y/n) was going to tell you _eventually_ , so I suppose there’s no real harm in revealing this.” Dark eyes fall on each of your friends in turn and the daemon confesses, “(y/n), in order to aid His Highness in his quest, bestowed upon him something invaluable; something to bolster his magic and give him strength. They gave him their soul.” 

There’s a visible jolt through the room, partly due to the sudden intrusion and partly due to what was just revealed. Various alarm bells are going off in the Shield’s head. He shares a look with Prompto that says he’s getting the same strange vibes. Amber eyes dart between Drusa and Orion, both of whom appearing to know exactly what’s going on. “What do you mean by that?” 

Pink lips twist into a conventionally attractive smile. Ignis swears he can practically _hear it_ happen, the facial expression is so predictable of someone as sickeningly sycophantic as the mage you “ran into” in Lestallum. “I’m certain (y/n) told you of binding magic before? It’s an enchantment specific to the branch of black magic.” Orion’s voice holds a strange lilt. It’s now that Ignis realizes he’s mimicking the affect of your speech to hide an accent. But he can’t think about that _now_. 

Now, all he can think about is how this is all seeming to come at him from nowhere. He wants to laugh at himself. Because, logically, _realistically_ , he knew you were up to no good. Iggy would confront you about it at times and you'd dodge as always. And he let you. Not once did he insist on you telling him the truth. Ignis was simply satisfied to be fed half-truths because he was too busy for the whole truth. Plus... you knew what you were doing, didn't you? You always said you did... 

“You mean that soul stealing stuff?” Prompto suddenly asks, glancing uneasily down at your impassive face. Gods, what have you done to yourself? He remembers that talk you had with everyone way back when. He swallows hard, not knowing who to feel worse for: you for doing this or Ignis for having to live with the consequences. “I thought (y/n) said that was just a bunch of Spire rumors about Lumis the Enchanter?” 

Heels of pristine leather shoes click against the floor, drawing nearer and nearer to Ignis. Dark eyes stare down at him, unblinking, from the foot of the bed. Prompto subtly shifts himself so he stands between the two. Orion smiles. “It _was_ a lie by the Spire,” the daemon admits. “Lumis never took anything that wasn’t offered and he never kept a single soul. (y/n) ignored the warnings of their ancestor but this,” a thin hand gestures toward your immobile form, “was an unforeseen consequence.” 

“But they knew there would be consequences,” murmurs Ignis. The prince’s retainer recalls a conversation he had with you one night in Altissia. How foreboding you’d been, yet he couldn’t determine why. He can see you now with that soft smile on your lips and your downcast eyes, refusing to look at him. You’d asked for forgiveness. You’d asked for understanding. Ignis is unsure if these things can ever be given. He knew you were lying to everyone. He just didn’t know how big that lie was. In fact, he still doesn’t. 

Drusa looks on soberly as Orion emphatically says, “They would _die_ for their king and country, yes, but this is not death. (y/n) walks with the gods and will return to the part of themselves that remains in this realm.” 

This conversation has already been had between the magister and the daemon. It was there, standing at the foot of your bed, when she came in to check on you because you had missed all of your morning appointments. A great shock, seeing _that_ face again. He hadn’t aged a day after more than a decade and Drusa just _knew_. All of those rumors about Decima’s strange child came flooding back and she _knew_. How funny, all the things she can take in stride as long as she’s promised that you’ll be okay in the end. 

“What do you mean by that?” Ignis wonders, brow furrowed at that confusing statement. _You’re_ walking with the _gods_? Is Orion saying that you’re alive or not? 

“Prince Noctis took (y/n)’s soul with him into the realm of the gods. Creatures can live without souls- (y/n) has done it for _weeks_ \- but right now they’re being pulled in two different directions. Two realms now claim two different parts of (y/n) and (y/n) is currently with Prince Noctis and their soul,” explains the daemon, as matter of fact as can be given the circumstances. The lecturer’s tone that it’s so accustomed to using with you when it teaches you these things isn’t appreciated by your friends. 

“So you’re sayin’ that (y/n)’s soul is _lost_?” Gladiolus scoffs. He, like Prompto, has a hard time looking at you. You look so small in that large bed, it nearly swallows you whole. It’s unsettling for the mouthy mage to appear fragile. It feels like just yesterday when you were making fun of him for doing squats while he ate dinner. The brunet’s nostrils flare and he says something foolish: “How the hell could you two let (y/n) do somethin’ like that?” 

“It’s _not lost_ ,” Orion snaps, “and it was neither myself nor Drusa who _allowed_ anything. (y/n) isn’t without free will. His Highness has the soul and only he can return it to the body. In essence, (y/n) is enthralled to him. But that’s beside the point. I’m _trying_ to assuage your fears. This comatose state is temporary. When Prince Noctis crossed realms, (y/n) was pulled in that direction- their consciousness moved with him. Rest assured that they _will_ return to this realm to fulfill their duty. They won’t stay away. Not when there’s so much to do.” 

The daemon is thoroughly exasperated. 

Addressing your concerned friends is such a bother. They listen but they don’t comprehend what’s being said. But how could they? The daemon speaks as if it assumes they all have an extensive background in arcane study like its progeny. They don’t know much about these things and are each playing their own internal version of Gladio’s blame game. For one so corrupt and entrenched in dangerous and arcane magic, the daemon really doesn’t see what the big deal is. 

Humans are always so odd about time, though- about the passage of it, always clinging to it so desperately as if they can make it stay through sheer might alone. Perhaps it’s because the daemon can still speak to you that it doesn’t take your loss so hard? Perhaps it’s because it doesn’t share your friends’ guilt over not somehow realizing what you were doing (an impossibility) and leaving you behind in the Spire in the first place that it doesn’t have the same aching pain in its heart like they do? 

“In the meantime.” Drusa gestures toward the door stiffly. She's been standing beside it the whole time, eyes almost unblinking like a feral cat. Your friends turn toward her, confused. Anger dissipates, replaced by shock. She’s kicking them out? As if reading their mind, Drusa confirms this by opening the door with one elegant movement, face as stoic as it has been since they all showed up to see you. One dark hand gestures toward the empty doorway. “I trust you can find your way out. Go the way you came." 

Unsure of the tone they’re all receiving from an agent who has, thus far, been nothing less than cooperative with the Lucian rebellion, Ignis is dumbfounded by Drusa’s coldness. “Are you telling us to leave? So soon?” Instinctively, he grips your hand harder, as if he doesn’t intend on leaving. Without his sight, he misses all of the nuances of communication in facial expressions. He’s yet to learn to appreciate the pauses and to glean meaning from even the most subtle of tonal changes. 

If he had had more time to adjust to this new way of living, Ignis could hear the hidden hurt in Drusa’s voice. 

A curt nod of her head is all Drusa gives by way of some friendly gesture. Still, to those who can see it, it’s stiff and hardly cordial. “I already told you that I wouldn’t allow you to move (y/n). You’re _enemies_ of the Empire.” Her words cut like a paring knife- quick and precise. “Persona non grata, if you will.” 

Gladiolus glowers. “You’re outta your damn mind.” 

Her eyes turn sharp. 

Texts had told her all about your friends. There had been photos and funny videos with various locales as the backdrop of these forged friendships. Before this, she looked forward to meeting them and her greeting would have been warm and enthusiastic. But now? Drusa is conflicted in her feelings. Decima’s death is still a fresh and bleeding wound. How readily her friend had died for her king wasn’t as awe-inspiring to the magister as it was for the rebels that Dru has accommodated. Where others saw a hero, Drusa saw such a terrible waste of life. She saw tragedy. 

Now her child lies comatose due to the repercussions of a horrible spell. Her child will have to learn to live without magic _if_ they wake up. Her child will have to live with a tarnished reputation _if_ they wake up. And why? Why did this happen? It happened because of your cursed loyalty- just like your mother. Because of how you cling to duty and honor, you barely cling to life. Drusa won’t have your chances of recovering ruined by the people she can’t help but blame for all of this. 

“It’s because I’m _well within_ my right mind that I’m ordering you out. (y/n) still has a cover to maintain and I _cannot_ risk them being moved, therefore I _cannot_ risk this campus suddenly turning hostile toward them while they’re in this state. You may have a spy planted here but there are _dozens_ upon _dozens_ of mercenaries hired directly by Chancellor Izunia as well as the magitek soldiers.” The magister gathers herself up to her full height and commands, “ _Leave_. You three sneaked past security and made your way up here to confront the Arch-Mage. You were stopped but you escaped before the guards that I called could arrive.” 

The daemon turns to Drusa, eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise. “Did you _really_ call the guards?” 

Under Prompto Argentum and Gladiolus Amicitia’s hard stares, the magister doesn’t even flinch. “Yes.” 

Drusa could have slapped Ignis and he’d feel a less discombobulating mix of offense and shock. What has he or any of his allies done to earn her ire? They’ve all just met! The strategist doesn’t have much time to think on it before Prompto is ushering him out of the chair with a panicked swear. Cold brown eyes watch them go before turning onto the stoic magister. It watches her for a moment longer before the daemon returns its gaze to the doorway, standing vigil for the swiftly approaching guards. 

Cold air burns his lungs. Prompto holds his hand in a crushing grip, not caring for Ignis’ ego and only having a mind for everyone’s safety and the poor lighting. Leaving goes much faster than coming here; humid air mercifully filling Ignis’ tight lungs the very second they make it out onto the wooded grounds. Mercenaries are in hot pursuit, shouts ringing through the air followed by what might be warning shots or genuine gunfire- there’s certainly no stopping to check. 

All the while, amidst the chaos, Ignis swears to himself that he’ll make things right with you- _for_ you- no matter what it takes. 

* * *

**Gladiolus**

Sometimes Gladiolus hates his fellow advisors. Well, “hate” is too strong a word for (y/n) Iovita and Ignis Scientia. Both of his friends are know-it-alls who, arguably, have strong personalities and are a couple of hardheaded bastards. Take, for example, the journey back to Lucis. Ignis couldn’t just let it go, your letter to everyone on the train ride to Cartanica. And he really couldn’t let _Gladio’s_ response go once he got the Shield to tell him what his response was back then. 

For a little while, Iggy badgered Gladio about writing a proper response to no avail. But then a sort of tragedy struck and, well, so did opportunity. “Gladio. Could you write (y/n)? Don’t tell them what’s happened with Noctis… It wouldn’t be appropriate to tell them in that way. But do inform (y/n) that we’re coming to retrieve them. I’m sure they would want to be apprised of the situation.” 

There was a hesitation that Ignis quietly made note of to himself before going off to get coffee with Prompto. It was only a moment- maybe a second. Still, that private deliberation on behalf of the Shield didn’t go unnoticed by the royal retainer. Communication with you was something that Gladiolus Amicitia had danced around since the moment you left to play the part of the spy. But with Noctis gone, with the man he’d sworn to protect gone, he couldn’t find an excuse to say he was too busy. 

Ignis, for his part, couldn’t find it in himself to regret asking this of his companion. Because Ignis, for the time being, understood why you’d made the decision to depart from the group and therefore he disapproved of Gladio’s treatment of you. For the sacrifice that you were making, Gladiolus rewarded you with nothing more than contempt- and a childish type of contempt, at that. But the tactician rightly knew that it was how his friend masked his fear. 

Still, Iggy wasn’t terribly sympathetic. He believed that you required the strength of your significant other. Behind enemy lines, going toe to toe with the likes of Iedolas and Ardyn, you needed support and not ire. So, to Ignis, the least- and I mean the _very least_ \- Gladiolus could do was write you a damn letter from time to time. Even _Prompto_ agreed and the guy hates confrontation of any sort. But he hates you being mistreated even more. 

Everyone needed to be strong for Noctis _and_ each other. Everyone had been making sacrifices in their own way and Ignis wouldn’t abide you being the one who continued to take a thankless role. Although the rift between you and Gladio wasn’t something that Iggy thought could be mended by the Shield scribbling out a hasty missive about the official termination of your spy duties, he figured it might be a start. Anything’s better than silence. At least this might start a conversation. 

“Yeah, sure,” grunted the brunet bodyguard at Ignis’ retreating back. Gladiolus Amicitia told himself that he _didn’t_ resent you. 

Logically, he knew that you were fulfilling your duty to Noctis. Though “spying” doesn’t fall within the purview of your role as arcane advisor, you were being very opportunistic by capitalizing on your inheritance of the Spire of Duscae, the chancellor’s interest in you, and the emperor’s alleged goal of using you to demoralize Lucian forces. You’ve always had that exploitative streak. 

Gladdy had known that since practically the moment he met you and found you used flirtation to get free stuff. But there’s nothing romantic about duty. 

A strange thing to think while he wrote a note to you with perhaps more force than necessary. His thigh was used as a makeshift table, ballpoint pen creating divots in the back of a receipt and nearly puncturing through the thermal paper. The Shield’s brow puckered. When he couldn’t bring himself to keep digging through Prompto’s stuff for the stationary the blond bought for the express purpose of writing letters to you, Gladio defaulted to a receipt in his back pocket. Iggy would scoff. 

Ink skipped and Gladiolus was forced to write your name over and over before he tossed the pen down and sighed. Mind began to wander. He wondered how you were doing. And he’d know if he only _asked_. It wasn’t as though you were the one doing the avoiding. 

Up and down, his knee bobbed. The train continued onward for mainland Lucis. Everything was coming to a head. Realistically, Gladiolus knew that this cold, one-sided war could continue no longer. He’d only end up hating himself if he went on like this and he feared you might, too. The Shield reassured himself that you were too kind-hearted to dump him over this slight hiccup in your relationship (which also made him feel extraordinarily guilty for being such a jerk). 

And he was right. You care for him too much to end things over a spat. Plus, you knew you were in the wrong for so suddenly leaving. You also knew why Gladio was behaving this way. 

Gladiolus’ frustration didn’t stem from any sort of jealousy toward Noct or your undying loyalty to the royal. He’s always understood your commitment to your service. That’s been a mutual understanding since the moment you joined up with the group. Gladio’s frustration lies with your casual dismissal of him and his feelings. There’s a stark difference between how he handled leaving Noctis’ company in order to become stronger for his prince and how _you_ handled leaving to better serve Noct. 

When the Shield prepared to leave, he agonized over how you would take it. Hell, he even overstepped his professional boundaries to ask Noct, as a friend, to keep an eye on you. Gladdy even took you aside to personally inform you of his intentions and to be sure you’d be okay. But you? It was as if you decided to leave on a whim. There was no warning, there was no time for a fitting farewell. There was no time for _him_.

Honestly, it was embarrassing. The fact that you’d been plotting away and hadn’t said a word to him about it even after engaging in a relationship? 

He knew he’d been behaving poorly. Letters were ignored, requests to sign off on messages being sent to you were brushed off, and generally speaking the Shield did a godsawful job of hiding his hurt. He told himself that he knew better than to be _this_ petty. Even when golden-brown eyes stared fixedly at a hastily written letter, penned in your hand, he told himself that he’d rise above these negative feelings and be the bigger person. Yet your letters continued to go unanswered. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised when you eventually stopped writing altogether, thanks to his neglect. But he was. 

Although a mature man, Gladiolus has some shortcomings that aren’t all that uncommon. He can be remarkably ill-tempered and prone to embracing double-standards that benefit him. Case in point, what amounts to “ghosting.” The brunet thought he was in the right when he was ignoring you and mutely listening to Prompto spout off about the admittedly paltry amount of letters you sent them by way of your familiar (apparently, you didn’t call because you didn’t want your phone getting confiscated). 

However, now that the shoe was on the other foot? Now that it was radio silence on your end, with nothing for him to childishly ignore? To Gladiolus, you had no right to do that. _You were_ the one who decided to leave your post, so... How _dare_ you? In his defense, it was a complicated ordeal that he was struggling with. It was just easier to ignore the situation with you for now. 

It’s just that you left while your relationship was still in its early-stages. There was no closure to be had there. Gladio was just left with all of these strong feelings for you that were still growing out of his control and he resented you for leaving like you did. Still, he wrote that damn letter that his hardheaded and persistent friend told him to write. He even signed it. He even wrote- tentatively and with flushed cheeks- that he loved you. 

You never answered. 

Now they’re here on the Spire’s grounds under cover of darkness and Gladiolus doesn’t know what awaits him. He doesn’t know if you’re going to argue against leaving your post or cooperate. The only thing he _does_ know comes from the spy that was planted in the Spire, and that’s that your schedule for the night is clear and there’s no risk of Ardyn dropping by to visit his Niff coworker. He’d had to use a damn cypher for a message as dull as that. 

Gladiolus thinks you’re just being your usual hardheaded self. Maybe you’re giving him a taste of his own medicine with your silence? He wouldn’t blame you. Gods, the pathetic apology that he has prepared... It’s definitely going to make you blush and groan- possibly even _cringe_. The thought alone brings a small, self-deprecating smile onto the brunet’s face as he corrals Prompto and Ignis into a secret passageway hidden in a scullery pantry. 

The Shield has yet to realize that leaving you in the Spire- leaving you behind and letting you get away with it- was a _massive_ mistake. A mistake that he and everyone who cares for you is going to have to learn to live with for the next decade. 

It’s not his fault that he’s so painfully oblivious right now. Blame your secretive nature and his trusting one. Gladio had always assumed that if something major was going on that you’d eventually tell him about it- he’s never felt _entitled_ to your truth and he’s always known that when confronted in the wrong way you freeze up and shut down faster than his old phone when he’d try to run King’s Knight on it. But, dammit, he probably should’ve insisted with your stubborn ass. 

“It’s so narrow in he- Ow!” Prompto whines when Gladio elbows him to keep quiet. He was aiming for the shorter guy’s shoulder but got him in the chest because, like the blond was complaining about, it’s narrow in the hidden corridor. Despite what a hard time they’re having navigating the secret labyrinth within the Spire’s walls, you’ve pretty much sprinted through each and every one. Many a student has left the Spire thinking it was haunted, not knowing it was just (y/n) Iovita tripping and falling in a secret passage. 

“It’s just one more level and I’ll hand you all off to Magister Drusa,” hisses the spy. The woman has been quiet thus far. 

Ignis hums from behind Gladiolus. “Ah, yes. (y/n)’s right-hand. She’s the one who has helped us coordinate this meeting.” 

Though Gladdy knows Iggy is saying this for his and Prompto’s benefit (the guy can never turn off his brain), it feels a little pointless considering both men have transcribed the spy’s messages for the bespectacled brunet before. They also know, based on their favorite mouthy mage, exactly who Drusa Alomar is. You often spoke of the older woman like she was a mother figure. Gladiolus is looking forward to meeting someone whom you hold in such high regard. 

Unfortunately for him, Dru isn’t her usual self. 

The magister waits silently outside your bedroom door, eyes trained down the stone corridor. First she hears faint steps and then she can make out the hazy outline of four figures. The spy masquerading as a maid makes an abrupt about-face when she sees Drusa is already waiting for the men and your friends continue toward her without their escort. Drusa offers Gladiolus a tight-lipped smile which he’s hesitant to return. Now his guard is fully up. He can spot a fake smile from a mile off. 

“Before we enter,” Drusa speaks softly but sternly, “I should warn you all that (y/n) fell ill a few days ago.” 

One sentence plunges Gladiolus headfirst into an internal panic. Your silence now bears a new and terrible meaning. No longer does Gladio think you were just mad or didn’t have the time. Maybe you were but for how long exactly? He asks just that. Or at least he thinks he does because Drusa’s dark eyes flicker over him as she pushes open your bedroom door and says, “They’ve been like this for nine days- unconscious and completely unresponsive. I’m only allowing you to visit.” 

“If I recall, we wrote explicitly that we would be taking (y/n) tonight. With His Highness gone this ruse is no longer-” 

Ignis’ indignation is abruptly cut off with a huff of breath from the magister. “You’ll not move (y/n) from this place. Not now.” And then she’s curtly gesturing for them all to enter your room. They do so slowly, not knowing what to expect. Everything is washed in a yellow glow from a massive fireplace. The room is crowded with books and bauble-laden shelves. It’s everything Gladdy expected your room to look like. Too bad he can’t appreciate guessing it right. 

Prompto and Ignis follow Gladiolus in with Drusa on their heels. She shuts the door behind them all and remains there, watching. 

Amber eyes scan you critically as the Shield draws near that massive bed of yours. Chest barely rises and falls, your eyes are visibly sunken even though they’re closed. There’s a strange, ashen quality to your skin that shouldn’t be there. This is a nightmare. Gladiolus has seen you like this before. It was after the coeurl. When he was trying to resuscitate you. It’s like being taken back in time to one of the most terrifying moments of his life. All he can do is stare. 

“Are they okay?” Prompto wonders, voice so small as he stands just behind the Shield. He’s trying to give the big guy some space but dammit if he doesn’t want to dramatically throw himself down on the bed with his best friend. 

Ignis, trying to pry Prom’s damn claw-like fingers off of his arm, asks, “Do you know what brought this on, magister?” 

A familiar voice gives a polite cough and Gladiolus nearly breaks his damn neck to look over at the far corner of the room. As if stepping out of the shadows, your alleged former classmate comes forward. The Shield swears on his life that the mage wasn’t there when they all entered the room. It was just you on what appears to be your deathbed. Yet here comes Orion, looking as comfortable as if he’d been here all along. 

Dark brown eyes blink slowly and a pretty smile is offered. “I believe I can answer that. (y/n) was going to tell you eventually, so I suppose there’s no real harm in revealing this.” Unblinking eyes fall on each of your friends in turn and the daemon confesses, “(y/n), in order to aid His Highness in his quest, bestowed upon him something invaluable; something to bolster his magic and give him strength. They gave him their soul.” 

There’s a visible jolt through the room, partly due to the sudden intrusion and partly due to what was just revealed. Various alarm bells are going off in the Shield’s head. He shares a look with Prompto that says he’s getting the same strange vibes. Amber eyes dart between Drusa and Orion, both of whom appearing to know exactly what’s going on. “What do you mean by that?” 

Pink lips twist into a demure smile that Gladdy wants to smack off of the guy’s smug face. “I’m _certain_ (y/n) told you of binding magic before? It’s an enchantment specific to the realm of black magic.” Orion is as haughty as ever which the Shield finds inappropriate and insensitive given the state that you’re in. His blood begins to boil. He knew from the moment he saw the guy in Lestallum that he was no good. 

“You mean that soul stealing stuff?” Prompto suddenly asks, glancing uneasily down at your impassive face. Gods, what have you done to yourself? He remembers that talk you had with everyone way back when. He swallows hard, not knowing who to feel worse for: you for doing this or Gladio for having to live with the consequences (especially since the two of you had an argument before this). “I thought (y/n) said that was just a bunch of Spire rumors about Lumis the Enchanter?” 

Heels of pristine leather shoes click against the floor, drawing nearer and nearer to the bed. The daemon halts at the foot of the bed, seeming to sense Gladiolus’ unspoken hostility. Orion smiles once more. “It _was_ a lie by the Spire,” the daemon admits. “Lumis never took anything that wasn’t offered and he never kept a single soul. (y/n) ignored the warnings of their ancestor but this,” a thin hand gestures toward your immobile form, “was an unforeseen consequence.” 

“But they knew there would be consequences,” murmurs Ignis. The prince’s retainer recalls a conversation he had with you one night in Altissia. How foreboding you’d been, yet he couldn’t determine why. He can see you now with that soft smile on your lips and your downcast eyes, refusing to look at him. You’d asked for forgiveness. You’d asked for understanding. Ignis is unsure if these things can ever be given now. 

Drusa looks on soberly as Orion emphatically says, “They would die for their king and country, yes, but this is _not_ death. (y/n) walks with the gods and will return to the part of themselves that remains in this realm.” 

This conversation has already been had between the magister and the daemon. It was there, standing at the foot of your bed, when she came in to check on you because you had missed all of your morning appointments. A great shock, seeing that face again. He hadn’t aged a day after more than a decade and Drusa just _knew_. All of those rumors about Decima’s strange child came flooding back and she _knew_. How funny, all the things she can take in stride as long as she’s promised that you’ll be okay in the end. 

“What do you mean by that?” Ignis wonders, brow furrowed at that confusing statement. You’re walking with the gods? Is Orion saying that you’re alive or not? 

“Prince Noctis took (y/n)’s soul with him into the realm of the gods. Creatures can live without souls- (y/n) has done it for weeks- but right now they’re being pulled in two different directions. Two realms now claim two different parts of (y/n) and (y/n) is currently with Prince Noctis and their soul,” explains the daemon, as matter of fact as can be given the circumstances. The lecturer’s tone that it’s so accustomed to using with you when it teaches you these things isn’t appreciated by your friends. 

“So you’re sayin’ that (y/n)’s soul is _lost_?” Gladiolus scoffs. Gods, he might be sick but he has to be strong. You look so small in that large bed that it nearly swallows you whole... It’s unsettling for the Rude Mage to appear fragile. It feels like just yesterday when you were making fun of him for asking you to sit on his back while he did pushups. The brunet’s nostrils flare and he says something remarkably insensitive: “How the hell could you two let (y/n) do somethin’ like that?” 

Translation: How could none of us have foreseen any of this and consequently let it happen? How could _I_? 

“It’s _not lost_ ,” Orion snaps, “and it was neither myself nor Drusa who _allowed_ anything. (y/n) isn’t without free will. His Highness has the soul and only he can return it to the body. In essence, (y/n) is enthralled to him. But that’s beside the point. I’m trying to assuage your fears, Shield. This comatose state is temporary. When Prince Noctis crossed realms, (y/n) was pulled in that direction- their consciousness moved with him. Rest assured that they will return to this realm to fulfill their duty. They won’t stay away. Not when there’s so much to do.” 

The daemon is thoroughly exasperated. By the gods is that man of yours _loud_. 

Addressing your concerned friends is such a bother. They listen but they don’t comprehend what’s being said. And how could they? The daemon speaks as if it assumes they all have an extensive background in arcane study like its progeny. They don’t know much about these things and are each playing their own internal version of Gladio’s very unfair blame game. For one so corrupt and entrenched in dangerous and arcane magic, the daemon really doesn’t see what the big deal is. 

Humans are always so odd about time, though- about the passage of it, always clinging to it so desperately as if they can make it stay through sheer might alone. Perhaps it’s because the daemon can still speak to you that it doesn’t take your loss so hard? Perhaps it’s because it doesn’t share your friends’ guilt over not somehow realizing what you were doing (an impossibility) and leaving you behind in the Spire in the first place that it doesn’t have the same aching pain in its heart like they do? 

Unfortunately, its helpfulness has also painted a large target on its back because now Gladdy is suspicious. Grief is turned down so that distrust can flourish. “Orion” sure knows a lot about your spell. You’re the world’s leading expert on black magic and the magic you’ve employed for the “soul enchantment” is so obscure that it was relegated to ancient Spire rumors. Yet, somehow, Orion has an extensive knowledge about it. 

Imagination runs rampant. Gladdy’s memories get selectively omitted to confirm a wild theory that he’s cooked up in his head to explain Orion’s black magic expertise and his presence in this room: _He_ gave you the idea for the spell. You only started acting so weird after Lestallum, after all. Gladio brushes aside older memories. He makes himself forget that you began spiraling after the coeurl incident because he _needs_ someone to blame for this. And that person is Orion. 

“In the meantime.” Drusa gestures toward the door stiffly, ripping Gladio from his dark thoughts. She's been standing beside it the whole time, eyes almost unblinking like a feral cat. Your friends turn toward her, confused. Somehow, Gladio’s anger triples. She’s kicking them out? As if reading their mind, Drusa confirms this by opening the door with one elegant movement, face as stoic as it has been since they all showed up to see you. One dark hand gestures toward the empty doorway. “I trust you can find your way out. Go the way you came." 

Unsure of the tone they’re all receiving from an agent who has, thus far, been nothing less than cooperative with the Lucian rebellion, Ignis is dumbfounded by Drusa’s coldness. “Are you telling us to leave? So soon?” Without his sight, he misses all of the nuances of communication in facial expressions. He’s yet to learn to appreciate the pauses and to glean meaning from even the most subtle of tonal changes. If he had had more time to adjust to this new way of living, Ignis could hear the hidden hurt in Drusa’s voice. 

A curt nod of her head is all Dru gives by way of some friendly gesture. Still, to those who can see it, it’s stiff and hardly cordial. “I already told you that I wouldn’t allow you to move (y/n). You’re enemies of the Empire.” Her words cut like a paring knife- quick and precise. “Persona non grata, if you will.” 

Gladiolus glowers. He’s practically seeing red right now. After all this time he’s _finally_ in the same damn room with you and you’re unconscious because of some absurd spell borne from your foolish, self-sacrificing nature. And now, not even ten minutes after the gut-punch that was seeing you looking like a corpse, he’s being told to _leave you_? Like hell he will! Too bad he’s on a roll with being insulting to your adoptive mother, because he finds himself spitting like a viper, “You’re outta your damn mind.” 

Drusa’s eyes turn sharp. 

Texts had told her all about your friends. There had been photos and funny videos with various locales as the backdrop of these forged friendships. Before this, she looked forward to meeting them and her greeting would have been warm and enthusiastic. But now? Drusa is conflicted in her feelings. Decima’s death is still a fresh and bleeding wound. How readily her friend had died for her king wasn’t as awe-inspiring to the magister as it was for the rebels that Dru has accommodated. Where others saw a hero, Drusa saw such a terrible waste of life. She saw tragedy. 

Now her child lies comatose due to the repercussions of a horrible spell. Her child will have to learn to live without magic _if_ they wake up. Her child will have to live with a tarnished reputation _if_ they wake up. And why? Why did this happen? It happened because of your cursed loyalty- just like your mother. Because of how you cling to duty and honor, you barely cling to life. Drusa won’t have your chances of recovering ruined by the people she can’t help but blame for all of this. 

“It’s because I’m _well within_ my right mind that I’m ordering you out. (y/n) still has a cover to maintain and I _cannot_ risk them being moved, therefore I _cannot_ risk this campus suddenly turning hostile toward them while they’re in this state. You may have a spy planted here but there  
are _dozens_ upon _dozens_ of mercenaries hired directly by Chancellor Izunia, not to mention the magitek soldiers that remain.” The magister gathers herself up to her full height and commands, “Leave. You three sneaked past security and made your way up here to confront the Arch-Mage. You were stopped but you escaped before the guards that I called could arrive.” 

The daemon turns to Drusa, eyebrows raised in amusement. “Did you _really_ call the guards?” It cackles behind the sleeve of its sweater, eyes glimmering slits that are pointed right at the one man who is far from being in the mood for humor. 

Under Gladiolus Amicitia’s burning stare, the magister doesn’t even flinch. “Yes.” 

Another cackle. Gladiolus has to center himself so as not to lose his temper. But then the daemon chuckles, “Oh, my. I’d start running if I were you three.” 

He’d punch that smug bastard if he could. But the Shield has more pressing matters to attend to, like getting his friends out of the Spire alive and unharmed. It’s hardly a harrowing escape; Drusa having given them enough of a head start that they aren’t in any _real_ danger. Maybe that’s what pisses Gladiolus off more. Because as he’s forced to leave you there- bedridden and with your last memory of him being a petty, one-sided argument- he wants so desperately to hit something. One visage swirls about his mind as he thinks this. 

And after Gladiolus escapes the Spire, he sets off down a path of revenge against the ones whom he truly believes to have set this all in motion: Ardyn Izunia for striking fear in your heart and the one who calls himself Orion for preying on your fear.


	64. Prompto: The Cool One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some random fluff to break up the angst. Each guy will eventually get a birthday chapter in this part of the fic to lighten the mood. Anyway, Prompto thinks awkward = cool. You've been struggling to come up with a cool way to wish Prompto a happy birthday. You think you've missed the mark by a mile, but Prom thinks otherwise.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Language, Mild Angst, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Insecure Mages, Helpful Daemons, Doe-Eyed Blonds, Silently Judgmental Princes, Miscommunication

**The Cool One**

Prompto thinks you’re cool. You know that. Everyone and their grandma knows that. If the others hadn’t forcibly deleted his Instagram app from his phone, you can bet your butt the shutterbug would’ve started posting artsy photos of you to his account  _the second_  you two started dating. He’s far from shy about your relationship. Well, about flaunting it, that is. But he knows you have your reservations. You enjoy a certain level of privacy; the product of growing up in the Spire and of carrying such an onerous family name.

And that “certain level of privacy” is what leads the blond to erroneously assume that you’re “cool.” There’s a lot behind that word. It holds different meanings for different people. For Prompto Argentum, your boyfriend, it means that you’re level-headed, mature, and cool. Yes, in his world sometimes “cool” just means “cool.” He says it so damn often to describe you that it’s more a state of being than a common adjective used by people when they can’t think of a better word.

But, anyway, tangential meanings of words aside… It’s this pressure of being “cool” enough for Prompto and his perpetually starry eyes and blushing cheeks that you agonize over. Day and night for a week leading up to that dreaded day: His birthday. If you two nerds hadn’t started dating, if you’d just stayed best friends, you’d have absolutely no problem thinking of a cute birthday surprise for him. But “cool” has been etched into your gravestone and you find it necessary to try to live up to that bizarre ideal.

As a direct and inevitable result of restless nights, you’ve become snappish. That needy hand grabbing for yours is met with rolled eyes and tired sighs (though you try and fail to hide them). You’ve even neglected Prompto’s new favorite pastime: Secret nighttime chats in the tent where you two have to be  _so close_  or else risk waking the others. Usually these chats either begin or end with a kiss. And in the absence of affection, with frustration taking its place, Prompto Argentum begins to think the absolute worst.

You’re  _tired_  of him. You’re  _bored_  with him. You’re going to  _break up_  with him.

The days leading to his birthday are so miserable for him that Prompto even forgets that his birthday is coming up. Your withdrawal and habit of quickly putting your phone away or stopping your hushed chatter with your familiar despite the fact that Prom can’t hear a damn thing that the creature says (Not for a lack of trying, dammit. Prompto has nearly busted a blood vessel or two trying to strain and hear words he’ll never be able to hear unless he’s on death’s doorstep.) has the blond so on edge and so…  _despondent_.

Prompto starts to give you whiplash when he nearly drowns you in affection before suddenly going cold the very next day. He’s feeling rather indignant when he does this. His mindset is that  _he_  shouldn’t have to try so hard to make things work if  _you_  aren’t putting forth any effort. And then he feels bad about it and the cycle repeats itself. This lack of communication is absolutely asinine. But you find that you’re too embarrassed to admit to Prompto that you’re far from “cool” and that you’re struggling to do something “cool” for his birthday.

‘Cause that’s what cool people do, right? They do interesting things for their boyfriend’s birthday? They don’t fall back on the usual enchanting work or do something predictable like buy a shutterbug a camera that probably won’t even be better than the one he has? Forcing him- unwittingly so- to use a subpar camera because he’s too damn nice to say that the camera you got him sucks? Because that’s what will happen if you get him a camera...

“Right?” You ask this in an almost accusatory way, like the daemon knowingly led you astray.

“Fine, don’t take my advice. Return the camera and get him something else,” the daemon sighs, blinking its little toad eyes out of sync since you’ve got it so stressed. It’s got a (y/n) headache: Something piercing and painful and so damn persistent. It’s the day before Prom’s birthday and you’re  _still_  freaking out even though the camera was already bought and wrapped. You even enchanted a little something extra for him. The daemon personally thinks you’ve gone above and beyond but… you’ve quite the inferiority complex on you.

It watches you as you stare contemplatively at your cup of coffee. That dented cup is nestled between your palms despite the heat it radiates. The others have already gone to bed and the daemon couldn’t help but note the longing look Prompto threw your way that you didn’t notice. You’ve missed each one of those looks that he’s given you for days now, too caught up in your own head. The daemon fears you might actually be putting your relationship with the kindly blond in jeopardy with all of this obsessive over-thinking.

“You’re most assuredly cool by human standards,” it tries to encourage you when you fail to respond to its exhausted remark.

Eyes slide up from the cup over to that spotted creature that rests on a flat rock by the fire. Expression unimpressed, you drawl, “What do you mean ‘ _by human standards_ ’? Do you not think I’m cool?”

If the daemon could bite its lip right now, it would. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure,” you sigh, too tired for even a joking argument. The remainder of your coffee is dumped and the cup is cleaned under the watchful eye of your familiar.

“Going to bed?” The daemon asks hopefully, mentally noting the late hour. Or early, depending on how you look at it.

“Judging my sleeping habits?” You quip, straightening out your sweater and taking off your boots outside the tent’s entrance. “But, yeah… I’m headed to bed. You headed out for the night?”

The toad’s little head bobs. “Yes and I’ll be sure to give you and Prompto some much-needed privacy.”

Your mind is split between (yet again) asking where the daemon goes off to at night and wondering what the heck it means by that almost snippy little comment about your relationship with Prompto. Little do you know that the daemon has been standing in silent judgment of your unwitting treatment of the sweet blond. Too bad you’re totally oblivious of what that treatment  _is_ , you’ve been so consumed by anxiety and that nagging inferiority complex.

By the time your brain decides that the Prompto comment is of higher priority than a question that’ll never be answered, the daemon is gone. Alone, you sigh, and with a wave of your hand the campfire is extinguished. Fingers resume their work of deftly unlacing your boots and your shoes are carried under your arm as you enter the tent. A cacophony of varied sounds of sleep reach you- Noct’s heavy breathing, Iggy’s soft sighs, and Gladio’s bone-rattling snores. Prompto’s light snores with occasional mumblings are markedly absent.

He’s got almost a sixth sense for you. Prom was asleep but now he isn’t. He’s still rather drowsy- stuck somewhere between awake and feeling like he’s being dragged into a vat of molasses. But it’s nearly four in the morning (he blearily checked his phone when he woke up to the sound of your voice). This is maybe the fourth or fifth night in a row where he’s woken up to find that you’re not asleep beside him. Does it worry him? Hell yes. He’s so worried that he didn’t even notice the date when he checked the time.

You’ve just settled down into your sleeping bag when your alarm starts buzzing. Prompto hears a hushed “Shit!” and he can’t help the sleepy smile that curls his lips. There’s a moment of silence where he can imagine you glowering up at the ceiling with that little pout of yours. The image has his heavy eyelids drooping. Your presence at his side has always brought him much comfort and now that comfort lulls him back to sleep. Meanwhile, you’re left to silently agonize about what you’re going to do.

Today is the day.

There’s a present wrapped and ready to go in your bag and you made damn well sure that you’d all be camped out tonight in the scenic Malacchi Hills where you’d noted the sunrise looked absolutely beautiful the first time you all camped here. Today has been meticulously planned and yet you  _still_  feel like you’re at a disadvantage. It isn’t until you hear your boyfriend’s soft snores that you realize you need to actually make a move otherwise your plans will have all been for naught.

Rolling over onto your side, you reach out and shake Prompto’s shoulder. His bare shoulder is warm beneath your hand. It feels odd doing this: Being so close to him. It’s only now that you realize you’ve been isolating yourself in your quest to come up with the “coolest” birthday surprise for him. Such a realization makes your stomach churn. “Prompto,” you whisper softly, getting closer so your lips almost touch his ear. “Wake up and foll- No, not that!”

Even half-asleep, the blond blushes at his mistake. It’s been days since you two have done this and yet he acts as if you never missed a step. Prom so easily goes back to thinking that you gently shaking him awake at night is the cue to engage in hushed talk and amorous activities. It’s usually the cue,  _so_ … Somewhat reluctant, Prompto lets you go from where he pulled you down onto his chest and began nuzzling your neck. Another second passes before he takes his hand off of your ass.

The sound of your barely restrained snort reaches his ears just beneath that din of snores. He wants to go find a hole, curl up in it, and  _die_.

Feeling merciful (‘cause you can pretty much feel how hot his cheeks are given your proximity to him), you kiss both of Prompto’s cherry-red cheeks and inform him, “I need you to follow me.”

Though it’s been quite a while since you two had a fun little romp out in the wilderness or in a city, just the two of you away from the guys, Prompto is almost tempted to beg you to stay like this. He could fall asleep again so easily with you on top of him. The soothing warmth of your body nestled so close to his. Your breath on his neck and cheek. His fingers curled into your shirt and arms wrapped around you. If you just stay like this,  _exactly_  like this, he could almost…

“Prompto!” You hiss when you feel him drift off with that heavy breathing.

“Okay, okay,” the blond whines drowsily once he snaps awake by you jamming your index finger into his ribs.

Honestly, he doesn’t remember putting his boots on. Probably because you put them on for him. The crisp chill in the air is what finally wakes him up once and for all, juxtapose to the comforting heat of the tent. Blue eyes blink rapidly in an attempt to focus on his surroundings, but before he can get his bearings the blond finds himself being pulled after you. The darkness is dangerous but Prompto always feels safe with you, like nothing can go wrong. And even if it does, the sharpshooter trusts that you won’t let him come to harm.

You haven’t yet. You never will.

Still, those cornflower blue eyes cast sidelong glances at every tree and rock like they might turn into daemons. He holds your hand tighter, not because he’s afraid but because he enjoys the feeling. The rocky terrain turns into a steep incline just as the sky begins to lighten up. Birds chirp. It’s almost time. Prompto has been quiet up until now, watching the back of your head. It isn’t until you’ve started settling down onto an unassuming patch of grass that the sharpshooter finally questions, “What’re we doing?”

Honestly? He's thinking about how these past few days have gone. That ugly little thought that you're gonna break up with him? It's growing by the second into a horrible creature. And you? You're cringing internally. Because this is lame. Six, it's so incredibly lame. All that time to think of something cool and you pick  _this_? It's like it's just one cliché after another with you. Being  _cliché_  is your permanent state of being,  _not_  being  _cool_. Prompto is about to finally learn that today.

“The sun is about to rise,” is your curt response. When you settle down and look up, you find that he’s staring intensely at you. Gods, it’s almost like you two haven’t made eye-contact in years. Your stomach twists again. Patting the spot next to you, you warn him, “If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss the start. That’s the best part. You know? When the sky starts changing colors? I mean, it’s not  _fast_  so of course it’s not like you’ll miss it in a blink. But I want you to see it all with me. All of those cool purples starting to give way t-to orange and, uh… pink?”

You’re rambling. Oh, gods you haven’t rambled in his presence in what feels like centuries. Now, suddenly, you’re back to being awkward? _Now_?! On the day that you’re supposed to be  _cool_? Heart is practically palpitating when Prompto shoots you that signature boyish smile of his. Secretly, he loves when you ramble like that, with that stammer that usually comes from either excitement, your overactive mind going faster than your mouth, or nerves. It’s with that smile glued to his face that he sits next to you.

The blond stretches out his legs with a sigh, eyes occasionally going from the tree-speckled horizon to you. This? Prompto Argentum lives for this type of stuff. A hopeless romantic, it always sends a thrill up his spine when you go the hokey route with him. Chocolates and teddy bears? Cards with poems written in them and bouquets of flowers? He loves it all. You kick yourself after you fall into every cliché but he relishes every second. ‘Cause you’re his cool, suave mage who is a  _master_  of romance.

Prom is thrilled. Here he was these past few days, thinking your relationship had hit a rough patch, and you go and do  _this_. He’s so happy he could sing. And as you two watch the sun rise together, you begin to fumble with your bag. Hearing the sounds of you messing with a buckle, Prompto curiously looks over to see you pawing through your bag like a raccoon through a trash can. Your hands are shaking. Are you okay? You’re sweating a lot. Are you sick? Is everything-

“Happy Birthday.”

It’s said like you’re being held at gunpoint and as you hold out a box wrapped in parchment with “To: My Everything” written on it, you look like you’re about to be sick. Despite days of miscommunication, it takes Prompto Argentum all of two seconds to put the puzzle pieces together. And, gods, does he want to  _laugh_. ‘Cause super cool (y/n) Iovita has been worried about his birthday.  _You’ve_  been worried about  _his_  birthday! Prom thanks his self-control ‘cause, dammit, he almost squishes your cheeks.

“Aww! Thank you!”

He says it with that sorta high-pitched voice that he gets when he’s extremely excited. It almost makes him sound like a cartoon character. This change in voice typically happens whenever you do something that he finds endearing and, gods, he finds nearly everything you do endearing. Like now? Yes, it’s very nice of you to give him a birthday present and watch the sun rise with him on his birthday. But your hair is a bit messy and your sweater is disheveled from your quick lie down in the sleeping bag. The sight of you is too much to handle.

His self-control has a shorter lifespan than a gnat because your cheeks are now squished together so Prom can press an eager kiss to your puckered mouth. As you complain, rubbing your assaulted cheeks, Prom rips into his present with gusto (he carefully takes the piece where you addressed him as your “everything” and puts it in his pocket, though). The silence that follows once he opens the box is almost enough to make you roll down the hill you’re both currently sat on.

It’s not a terribly steep incline. It’s a valid escape option. You’ll just have to make sure you don’t roll into the nearby road.

But you stay. The urge to roll out of this situation like an anxious pillbug is stifled. Instead, you clear your throat and without even looking at the guy you explain, “I checked to make sure if this was better than the one you have. It  _is_  but I understand if your current camera has sentimental value. Anyway, think of it as a backup. Cameras aren’t unbreakable, so…” You cough into the crook of your elbow. “Anyway, I enchanted a camera strap for you, too. It’ll work like a bulletproof vest. A less ugly bulletproof vest.”

The sun is starting to hurt your eyes so you cast your gaze downward to where light traffic goes by. A passenger cranes their neck at the sight of two weirdos just hanging out in the Malacchi Hills like wild animals aren’t a threat. Then you start hoping that a wild animal will come and take your face off so that you can excuse yourself. Six, your mind sure does go to the most bizarre places for escapism, huh? It’s just that, if you’re attacked or harmed in any way, then it becomes less likely that Prom’ll tell you he thinks your gift is trash.

And he’s  _still_  dead silent. He doesn’t know what to say.

The second he opens the box he knows this present is entirely too much and social etiquette dictates that he refuse such a generous gift. Yet, at the same time, there’s no way in  _hell_ that he’d willingly give it up. To an untrained eye, this camera looks almost exactly like the one he has now minus a few dings and scratches. Six, but he knows better. Six, but how in the hell did you come up with the money for this?! Do people really pay that much for enchanted items? You couldn’t have raised the funds from all of the garbage you pick up...

Once, Noct gave him a bike for his birthday because Prom had mentioned in passing that the walk from his home to school was a bit long. He hadn’t been complaining, but Noct still tucked away that bit of info for later. And, boy, did he use it. And, boy, was that bike expensive as hell. Prompto felt like such an ass for adamantly refusing it. Sometimes, he still thinks Noctis is irritated with him over it… Fingertips carefully glide over the sleek device that his wonderful mage purchased for him.

He’s almost afraid to actually remove it from the box, so he turns his attention to the strap that you mentioned. It’s firm but soft and... wait a minute. Prompto’s face warms up and his stomach flips. He haltingly murmurs, “It-It has a chocobo patch…”

“Um… Yeah. You caught me. The patch was actually what I enchanted, so I stitched it onto the strap ‘cause I thought just handing you a patch would be lame.” You hazard a glance at the blond and have to do a double-take when you see how pink he is. “You okay?”

“Th-This is too much!” It pains him to say it. Oh, and your expression pains him even more! Gods, it’s that expression everyone hates to get from you: Upper lip slightly curled and evil eyes gazing off to the side. Like a dagger in the gut, that look is pure derision. The blond doesn’t know that that expression is actually more directed at  _yourself_ than it is at him.

“If you hate it just say you hate it,” you sigh, looking away. Fingers anxiously pluck at your pants, removing nonexistent lint. “Otherwise, don’t give me that nonsense.”

“I don’t hate it... I love it. But-”

“But it’s too much?” You repeat, voice flat.

Prompto stares down longingly at the camera, the strap held to his chest like precious silk. “Yeah...”

“Well, guess what? It’s really not. I’d give you the world if I could.” You’re throwing in hyperbole to make a point. However, that point- that you find such arbitrary social niceties with regard to gifts exhausting and pointless if the other party is willing to give the gift with no strings attached- is lost. In fact, you don’t really make it all that clear. All you make clear is that you’re cheesy to the extreme and liable to kill Prompto Argentum with cheese-overload.

But Prompto is one guy who is ready and willing to die by the cheese. He’s grinning like a madman as he sighs, stars in his eyes, “You’re so cool.”

“I’m not,” you growl, face heating up more and more by the second. “Today should’ve taught you that.”

“No,” Prom insists, throwing his arms around your shoulders and pulling you in for a tight hug. As usual, his face is burrowed into your neck. The box is wedged into his lap so it doesn’t take a tumble. “Today taught me that I’m the luckiest guy alive.”

“Wow,” you snort to hide your embarrassment. “And I thought  _I_  over-exaggerated?”

“It’s  _true_. I’m so lucky to have you, (y/n).” He kisses your neck which makes you jump a bit. That only makes him laugh. Pulling away, Prompto settles back and immediately takes the camera out of the box to examine it. He’s like a kid, eyes all big as he inspects his new toy. The strap is pulled over his head just to be safe, fingers lingering on the chocobo patch. “Uh, not to be rude, but how’d you afford the camera?” He wonders, eyes trained on the device, worried that he’s coming across as impertinent.

A superior grin crosses your face at the free pass to be boastful. “Why, I’m glad  _somebody_  is interested in how I make my living. You see, I’m quite an entrepren-”

Prompto Argentum loves his cool, arrogant mage. He loves their haughty sneers, the refined way that they speak when asked about the arcane arts, and how they carry themselves like they come from the highest echelon of society. But sometimes he has to put a pin in that ego to keep it in check. “You sold junk, didn’t you?” Freckled cheeks hurt from smiling so hard at the way your face freezes, caught in the act of trying to make your dumpster-diving ways sound like stock trading.

“I can take it back,” you snap once you’ve regained your composure. “If you keep acting like a punk, I’ll take it back. I don't care if it's your birthday or not.”

Immediately, those freckled arms are slung around your shoulders, the blond practically on top of you now with the camera pinned between you two. “No! I love it, my raccoon!”

“Okay, I’m taking it back.”

After the sun has properly risen, the two of you having missed the majority of it with your fooling around, you head back to camp where the guys have prepared a birthday breakfast. When Noct sees that Prompto accepted your lavish gift, he can’t help but feel mildly annoyed. It takes a lot of convincing from Iggy to keep him from impulse buying something to add to his own gift of stylish clothes that he’d seen his best friend looking at. It would be pretty difficult to have to lug around a bike on the Regalia, after all.


	65. Noctis: Liquid Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some random fluff to break up the angst. Each guy will eventually get a birthday chapter in this part of the fic to lighten the mood. Y’all just can’t be outdone when it comes to showering the raven-haired royal with affection. Although this is an angst-free zone, you’re now entering the Cringe Zone™.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Strong Language, Second Hand Shame, OOC Galore, Mage Magnetism, Mega AU, Sexual Tension, Alcohol Consumption, Drunk Kissin’, Semi-Skinny Dipping, Drink Responsibly Folks, Cheesier Than 5-Cheese Pizza, Subpar Writing

**Liquid Sunshine**

Lips move close by your ear, questions merely a whisper, hot breath making you turn away and gently jab your elbow into the blond’s ribs to get him to back off. Prompto makes a semi-dramatic “Oof!” as he rocks back on his heels and away from you at camp. He falls on his butt with a whine and a pout at the mean mage. The evening sun casts you in golden light, somehow making your haughty sneer even more devastating to the poor blond.

Across camp, Noct spares his two goofy friends a curious glance before Ignis recaptures his attention, instructing the younger man that he needs to stir the simmering veggies  _consistently_  or he’ll risk burning them. The temptation is almost too great for the royal. Blue eyes gaze down at the bits of wilting broccoli and browning cauliflower in the metal pot… he holds their very fate in his hands…

Prompto sits at your feet, fixing you with a stern look for your savage assault. You haven’t answered his question yet. Tomorrow is Noct’s birthday and his best friend is wondering if you have anything special planned for your dear friend. Prompto is curious. But this is also his unsubtle way of reminding you of the prince’s birthday, just in case you forgot. 

Fat chance of  _that_ happening.

“Suffice it to say I have a plan,” you snap snootily. A cheesy smile tugs up freckled cheeks and you hasten to add, “And that’s  _all_  I’m telling you. Come up with your own surprise, dork.”

“Hey! I have one!” Prompto argues, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing. He’s spent a lot of time collecting gil and purchasing all manner of tooth-rotting goodness for his pal. He’s created the antithesis of a “care package,” ‘cause the contents of his birthday surprise are sure to shorten his pal’s lifespan by a decade or two. “I just wanted to make sure  _you_  had one, too.”

Wicked eyes flicker over the blond and you smile. It’s a slow, sinful sort of smirk, actually. “I  _always_  have a plan. You should know that by now, Blondie.”

A pale eyebrow quirks. “Uh-huh…” Prompto drawls and you suddenly feel self-conscious under that knowing cornflower blue gaze.

Before you can say anything, the two of you hear Iggy make a displeased noise and the smell of burnt vegetables wafts over camp. “Noct,” Ignis sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Noct looks perfectly innocent; big blue eyes all shiny and upturned, dark eyebrows crinkled together, and lower lip pouted ever so slightly in the way that’s always staved off Ignis’ reprimands since childhood. 

You’re all forced to dine on cup noodles for dinner.

You sit beside Noct, as usual, and Prompto is on his other side. Firelight flickers over the prince, making shadows dance across him as he blows on steaming noodles. You cut your eyes to Prompto, who is busy trash-talking Gladio, before murmuring loud enough so only Noct can hear, “Can I get you to wake up really early tomorrow morning? There’s something I need to take care of and I’d like for you to come along.”

“Tomorrow?” Noct asks, brow furrowing.

“Yeah. There’s nothing  _special_  going on tomorrow, right?” You query innocently, cocking your head and waiting for him to correct you. Fork swirls and twirls idly in your cup of noodles, gathering the noodles and dehydrated peas and carrots into one giant ball that you’re going to choke on later as you try and python the whole thing. “You won’t be busy?”

Noctis hides mild hurt and irritation behind an impassive mask. Okay, he’s an adult… birthdays don’t mean much of anything anymore. Right? And he’s always sorta hated when people made a big deal over his birthday ‘cause it’s  _just_  another day. So, why does the fact that you forgot his birthday bug him so much? Oh, no. He’s waited too long to respond! 

Shoulders shrug up and down stiffly. “Uh… no. Nothing’s goin’ on. Yeah, I’ll go with you to…?”

“There’s a type of algae that comes to the water’s surface at dawn,” you quickly inform, lifting your ball of noodles and blowing on it. A few bits of carrot plop down into the briny broth. Across camp, Iggy looks at the ball in fascinated horror. “I’d like to collect a specimen at a nearby lake.”

“Okay.” Hot noodles are slurped up. He’s brooding. “Sure.”

You grin at the pouty brunet. “Great!”

Sleep eludes you; perhaps a punishment for playing head games or the product of an overactive mind.

Tossing and turning in your sleeping bag, you get up at about four and hastily prepare some food. Egg and cheese sandwiches are made and a thermos of home-brewed ginger tea is stuffed in your bag. You’re mindful of the snack cake you bought from a convenience store and the lone striped candle you were able to find. Noct’s gift is stored in the outer pocket just to be safe. As an afterthought, you put the bottle of whiskey in your bag.

The whiskey? Okay, you agonize over that for a while, standing in the middle of the quiet camp, staring down at the bottle in your hands. Whiskey in the morning is a little… Does that send the wrong message? But it’s for special occasions! 5:45 a.m. finally,  _mercifully_  rolls around. Your bag is especially heavy, slung across your shoulder as you poke and prod the sleepy royal, voice hushed and tickling his ear.

He has to admit, out of all of his friends’ methods for waking him, Noct prefers the way  _you_  rouse him in the morning. Maybe you just have a good bedside manner? But you and Iggy utilize practically the same tactics: A gentle shaking of his shoulder and an even-toned call of his name. So that doesn’t really explain it. Then again, you tend to deviate from Iggy’s method if Noct takes too long to wake up. The back of your hand strokes against his cheek...

Sometimes, like today, he pretends to be dead asleep for longer so that you’ll do this. He’ll feel the warmth of your hand against his cheekbone and eyelids will flutter at the sensation of it slowly dragging down at an angle until you stop with your knuckles against his chin. Then you get really close, lips by his ear, and you’ll softly sing, “It’s time to wake up, sweetheart.” And what a way to wake up, indeed. That, in itself, is a great birthday gif-

Oh, wait. You  _forgot_  that it’s his birthday. Now he’s in a sour mood again. Dammit.

Noct stumbles behind you, groggy blue eyes barely even open, practically a zombie in this early morning hour. Though he’s half-asleep, he still manages to mumble complaints about the time. It’s barely light out, stars still visible in the sky like little shimmers of silver in a sea of orange and purple. A smattering of puffy clouds makes the smile on your face falter a bit but you choose to ignore it and continue on.

After much stumbling and gentle teases (one question of “Should I give you a piggyback ride?” got Noct lucid enough to be able to walk straight), you mange to get your drowsy charge through the woods and to a shimmering lake. The air is a bit thick with humidity, the sweet smell of rain on the air. Mud and algae musk makes Noct cover his nose with the back of his hand but it also puts a bit of pep in his step: The familiar scent of a standing body of water.

Suddenly not sounding quite so tired, the rejuvenated prince wonders, “Is that a pier?”

A sly grin crosses your face at the inquisitive lilt in Noct’s voice. Pale cheeks turn pink at that expression of yours; wicked eyes narrowed at him and one corner of your mouth upturned. “Of course  _that’s_  the first coherent thing you say to me,” you laugh, causing those pink cheeks to flush a flattering red. “Yeah. It’s a pier all right. For  _fishing_. Why don’t you cast a line out while I hunt around for that algae?”

“You sure?” Noct asks, not wanting to ditch you since he said he’d help out but also totally wanting to ditch you ‘cause sniffing around for algae sounds boring as all hell.

“Uh-huh.  _Totally_  sure.”

You wait until he’s in the zone to act. It’s what you and Prompto call his “Fishing Zone” where he’s in such a deep level of concentration that he doesn’t even hear anyone snarking at his back. It usually happens when he doesn’t get a bite for a while. You linger around the water’s edge, picking up lures some sad sap lost and then  _actually_ collecting what looks to be cyanobacteria. If it’s toxic, you  _might_  be able to use it.

The trees in this area are tall. Supple, verdant leaves rustle in the warm wind. Dark clouds begin to roll in and you know you need to hurry things along. When Noct is perfectly zoned out, blue eyes trained on the water’s surface, you begin to unload your bag on the pier behind him, careful not to make too much noise or else he’ll get irritated that you’re spooking the fish (funny how he’ll complain about  _that_  but pretend not to hear you and Prom trash-talk him).

A plain green blanket is laid out on the splintered wood planks, corners smoothed out until it’s perfect. Sandwiches are carefully placed and the thermos is sat between them. Now comes the tricky part. Slowly, carefully, you peel open the plastic of the snack cake, eyes darting up to watch Noct’s back. You keep it on its little paper tray before sticking the striped blue candle into the middle of the pink pastry. A snap of your fingers and the candle is lit.

“Hey, Noct?”

Eyes waver over the water’s surface. He reels in his line before casting it back out in a new direction. It lands with a barely audible  _plop!_  “Yeah?”

“Look at this cool thing that I found,” you call, enticing him to tear his attention away from fruitless fishing to the surprise at his back. With a hum, your brunet pal turns his head to look at you over his shoulder. He freezes. You’re holding out a pink snack cake with a single candle as you sing, “Happy Birthday!”

Noct is as red as a cherry as you sing to him. You’re totally hamming it up, doing a little dance toward him with the cake in your hands and finishing the birthday song right as you get the pastry in front of him. Eyes are downcast and teeth bite his bottom lip. After you urge him to blow out the candle before the cake is nothing but wax, Noct asks rather pointlessly, gesturing to the food on the blanket, “What’s this?”

“Did you even make a wish?” You huff, handing the cake off to him. “And it’s breakfast.  _Duh_. Well, pre-breakfast. That’s a thing, right? I’m sure Iggy has something real special planned for breakfast but I nabbed you first.” You grin at his blush. “Did you seriously think I forgot? You’re such a dork. A  _gullible_  dork,” you tease, prodding his chest with your index finger.

“And you’re  _lame,_ ” Noct lamely counters, plucking the candle out of his birthday snack cake and licking the vanilla cream filling off of the end of it. “Ugh. It tastes like wax!”

“That’s what happens when you wait a century to blow out a candle,” you blithely inform him. Careful steps are taken around the picnic on the pier and you settle down on your side. Ginger tea is poured into the thermos cap. When you notice that Noct is still standing rather awkwardly with his snack cake in hand, you gesture for him to come and sit. “Well? Come on, birthday boy. I’m not eating this by myself.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Again, his cheeks darken with a blush. Wooden planks creak beneath him, the only other sound aside from birds chirping. Once he’s settled down across from you and begins unwrapping his egg and cheese sandwich, he pauses, eyes darting over the giant bottle of alcohol that’s still in the bag beside you. For the second time he asks another obvious question. “Is that whiskey?”

All of your agonizing from earlier? It comes crashing back down on you. You  _knew_  bringing it would be weird! Under that unblinking gaze, you scoff defensively and inform him, “For special occasions. One shot  _only_. It’s a little early and I don’t want you getting trashed. Iggy might murder me.”

Noct snorts, a smile on his face. “Whatever.”

The two of you eat in silence, listening to the birds chirp and the occasional fish jump out of the water. Noct looks more and more annoyed each time a fish flops up and smacks back down onto the water’s surface. Where the hell were they earlier? The more frustrated he gets, the bigger your grin grows at his expense. Sometimes, your royal charge is just too adorable for his own good.

Using his fish frustration as a segue, you blindly reach behind you, mouth full of breakfast sandwich, and inform him, “I got you a present.”

He makes a disgusted face at you. It’s so exaggerated that he should star in B-movies. “You what? Don’t talk with your mouth full or you’ll choke like last time, (y/n).”

Glossing over his snarky comment, you whip out a small box wrapped in parchment paper and exclaim, “Ta-da!” The morning sunlight makes the pale parchment look golden. Bits of tape hold it all together along with some decorative twine for the Aesthetic™.  The box is a bit heavy in your hand, the only clue as to what the box holds. You’re left holding the gift out in silence for a while. Why is Noct looking at you like that?

Blue eyes stare at you, unblinking from beneath those dark bangs. Noctis is almost expressionless but you swear you can see a hint of  _something_  in those steely blue eyes. Your prince’s staring issues stopped being an issue for  _you_  a while ago. However, with that “something” in his gaze, you find that you’re starting to grow a bit hot under the collar. Finally, he says, “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

So relieved to have the silence broken, to have that strange gaze waver and turn onto the gift rather than continue pinning you to the spot, you tease, “Says the guy who was pouting all last night ‘cause he thought I forgot his birthday.” Knees smart as you roll onto them in order to lean forward and insistently wave the box in Noct’s face. “Come  _on_. You know you want it.”

Noctis makes you wave the box for a bit longer. When you complain about your knees hurting, he sighs, “ _Fine_.” The prince eagerly unwraps the gift despite how he  _just_  said you didn’t need to give him one. Parchment is torn off with reckless abandon and the lid to the box is flicked off without a single care in the world. In fact, it almost goes right into the lake. Blue eyes blink down at the shiny metal contraption that rests in the box. “You got me a reel?”

His reaction leaves a lot to be desired. Are you the type of person who likes for people to be visibly excited about the gifts that you give them? Maybe. Prompto and Gladiolus are both highly satisfying gift-receivers. So you’re a little pouty when you drawl, “Uh-huh. Don’t look so excited. It’s an  _enchanted_  reel, so if you try to sell it I’m going to punch you.” That threat isn’t quite empty.

“Enchanted, huh?” Noct muses, sounding highly skeptical. He holds the reel in his hand, liking the weight of it. It’s an interesting metallic blue and orange. Gaze flicks up from the reel to land on you. He’s just activated his (y/n)-lie-detector. It’s about 97% effective against sneaky mages. “Are you  _lying_?” It’s said like a tease but you can see the seriousness in his eyes. It’s… a little offensive.

“Why would I lie about that?” You scoff. You’re sitting back down now and pouring yourself some ginger tea.

Your prince points out without missing a beat, “You told Prompto that your shampoo was enchanted to make someone’s hair fall out if anyone but you used it.”

“How do you know that was a lie? Are  _you_  the shampoo thief?”

“So, what’s the enchantment?” Noct asks, totally glossing over your question. Hm. Very suspicious. You  _have_  noticed that he’s been smelling quite minty as of late. A lot like peppermint and tea tree. Eyes narrow and Noct narrows his eyes right back, daring you to ask him about the shampoo again.

“Nothing cool,” you admit, dropping the shampoo inquisition in favor of talk about enchantments. “It’ll just increase the durability of your lines a bit. I couldn’t do a lot of testing so it’s not all that great, but it’s something.”

“Is that why you were breaking lines at camp?”

“It certainly wasn’t for fun, that’s for damn sure,” you grumble, thinking back to the many times that you almost cut your fingers on those damn fishing lines.

While you think back on how you finagled the enchantment, Noct admires the reel in a new light. You enchanted something like this just for him? He’s seen you messing with those fishing lines for over a week now. The thought of you going to such lengths for him has Noct’s stomach doing flips. Cheeks are a pretty pink as the raven-haired royal murmurs, barely even audible, “Thanks, (y/n).”

That?  _That’s_  a better reaction. Grinning like the cat that got the cream, you simper, “Tch. I got you, Noct.”

“Wanna fish?”

Aaaaaand the grin is gone. You blink in surprise. “Huh? What?”

“Do you wanna fish with me?” Noct clarifies, already standing up. “You always watch but you never join me. Consider it another birthday gift.” He’s already walking away, so sure that you’re going to follow.

“Another one? Gods, you’re needy,” you complain even as you stand, grab the bottle of whiskey and the thermos cap, and then make your merry way over to his side.

The way the planks of wood creak beneath your feet causes you to side-eye the entire pier. Now that you really look at it, it’s not all that sturdy looking; a termite-eaten thing, mostly splinters and holes. Thank the Six the water is shallow here. Once you get to Noct’s side, you pour him some whiskey in the thermos cap. You don’t expect him to trade you the cap for a fishing rod, having already baited it.

“Just cast the line out,” Noct explains when you look from the rod to him, clearly not understanding what he wants you to do. “It’s simple.”

Simple? You’ve never done this before and you’re nervous doing it from memory after observing Noct only a handful of times. Carefully, you draw the rod back and then swish it forward. The lure sails through the air and plops against the water. Noct applauds and you’re  _this close_  to shoving him into the lake. Now it’s the waiting game. But can Noctis stop staring? Six save you.

Blue eyes are unblinking, hand bringing the thermos cap up to take a sip of whiskey. Gods, he’s so silently judgmental and because you’re agonizing over how he’s watching you, you reel the line back in, already finished fishing after a handful of minutes. Perplexed, Noct asks if you need any help, a smile on his face. You think the fuck not. 

“Fishing isn’t my bag,” you inform, forehead slick with sweat. Why is it so hot out?

“Sure.” Noct sips his whiskey. He’s totally jerking you around, enjoying watching you squirm since you’re usually so haughty and sure of yourself.

“ _Noct_ ,” you groan, shoving the rod at him, “can you just take the rod and stop jerking me off?”

Noct stares at you for an eternity, biting his lips. Well, better head back to camp, ‘cause you’re pretty sure you just killed everything in the lake. With a thousand-yard stare, you gaze out at the trees, the rod firmly in your hand. The sky is darker now, the smell of rain in the air. You can die in peace. Except Noct queries, barely contained laughter in his voice, “You sure that’s what you meant to say? You  _really_  sure?”

“I got caught up between ‘jerking me around’ and ‘pissing me off’ but I’m committing to it.” You snatch the cap from him and polish off the shot he’s been nursing this entire time. Golden liquid is poured almost to the top of the cap and you take a long pull from it before sputtering for air. Noct snorts at your pain and takes the cap back, sipping elegantly again. Well, not elegantly. More like  _amateurishly_. But at least he isn’t stripping his esophagus like you.

“Just fish,” you rasp, throat raw from that hard liquor, “and shut up. This never happened.”

With a permanent smirk on his face, Noct chuckles, prying the rod from your clenched fist, “Whatever you say.”

Oh, how you imagine pushing your royal charge into the lake. What a wonderful sight that would be. But you restrain yourself and allow nature to punish your sweet prince. ‘Cause even with his fancy new reel, Noctis can’t catch a damn thing. He’s growing more and more irritated, even going so far as to text Iggy that he’s going to be spending a bit longer fishing with you. He’s hellbent on catching  _something_.

And you? You’re feeling good. Maybe  _too_  good. Fingertips are numbed but your judgment isn’t impaired. One shot of whiskey turns into… How many? You can’t keep track because once you’ve got a sip down, Noct is taking the thermos cap from you and taking a drink, blue eyes blazing and fixed on the lake’s surface. You sit at his feet at the end of the pier, occasionally tugging on his pant leg to get his attention as you speak.

Totally unnecessary touching. 

Blue eyes burn into you from above each time, complemented by a patient smile at your attempts to entertain him with softly spoken jokes. His smile widens when the puns come. And what a lovely smile it is… You gaze up at Noct and admire the way his dusky lashes frame his almond-shaped eyes. Admire how those lashes flutter over his cheeks when he screws his face up in frustration.

That expression on his face makes heat rush into your cheeks. 

Okay. You’re buzzed.  _Definitely_  buzzed. Gods, the amount of times you’ve been buzzed in your life… Never has being buzzed ever made you take your clothes off. Yet here you are, telling Noct that you can catch him a fish by wading into the lake and sneaking up on them when he sighs, all woebegone about the lack of activity. He rolls his eyes but those eyes stop rolling the second you pull off your shirt.

The heat of his gaze is something you honestly think you can feel as you whip your belt off and unzip your pants. You shimmy out of your pants and, y’know,  _maybe_  you make a bit of a show of it for sweet Noctis’ viewing pleasure,  _maybe_  you don’t. Who knows?  _Maybe_  he’ll replay the sight of you slowly pulling your pants down and then running your hands up your bare thighs tonight in his sleeping bag,  _maybe_  he won’t. Who knows?

Sitting on the edge of the pier, you dip your feet into the warm water before easily slipping into it. After you get your bearings, you walk out until the water comes up to your waist. Noct watches you wade through the lake, watches droplets roll off of your arms. He’s captivated by the sight of you but it looks like he’s simply staring when you turn around to address him, “C’mon, Noct.  _Water_  you waiting for?”

Those steel-blue eyes roll, the spell you put him under suddenly broken by such a lame pun. “ _Boo_. Don’t quit your day job,” Noct scolds phlegmatically, cheeks a bit flushed because he thinks he just got caught ogling you.

Hands glide through the tepid water, feeling it ripple between your fingers. There aren’t any fish in sight and it’s barely nine in the morning. You’re hoping to wrap this up soon for the other guys’ sake since you don’t want to ruin any of their plans by hogging the prince. “If I catch a fish, guess who won’t be getting any for dinner? Or maybe lunch, I don’t want to step on Iggy’s toes… Linner?”

“Brunch?” Noct supplies as he tugs off his boots and socks, eyes locked on you the whole time.

Water sloshes loudly as you hastily turn around to allow Noctis to take off his clothes in privacy, which is more than  _he_  did for you, the little perv. Eyes travel up to the cloudy gray sky, trying to find discernible shapes in that fluff, a flimsy attempt at coming across as innocent. “Y-Yeah. You’ll have nothing to dine on for  _brunch_  but your own bad attitude and snark. Tell me how it tastes.”

When next Noct speaks, his voice comes from right behind you, warm breath on the back of your neck. “Whatever you say. How do we catch fish like this, anyway?”

“Son of a-!” You yelp, stumbling back and dipping below the water’s surface for a moment before you come sputtering back up with Noct’s help. A mouthful of murky water is spat out and for the briefest of moments you want so badly to use that old whiskey as mouthwash. Heart hammers at what you’ll dramatically look back on as a near-death experience. Irritated, you snap, “Do I need to put a bell on you?”

“Maybe.”

The way he says it is so bizarre to you. His voice goes deeper, makes you blink rapidly in confusion. You’re suddenly aware of his hands on your upper arms, warm fingertips pressing into cool skin. Blue eyes bore into you. Arms are finally let go but you can still feel him. “Uh… We have to stay still and the fish will naturally come around like we don’t exist. Then, when they least expect it, you just dart your hands into the water and catch the poor sucker.”

“Have you done this before?” Noct inquires, gazing about the placid lake like he wasn’t just holding you and staring intensely into your eyes. Damn, he’s cool. Except he isn’t. To you, he looks totally unaffected but on the inside the brunet is freaking out. He wonders if he overstepped his boundaries. The way you looked at him, lips slightly parted, has him a bit on edge. Was that a  _good_  look? He doesn’t know.

Still thinking about the heat of his hands, you’re a bit out of it, wondering, “Done what?”

“Fishing with your hands?” Noct quirks an eyebrow at you and the glazed look in your eyes. When you become visibly flustered, a sinful little smirk curls his lips. “What did you think I was talkin’ about?”

Yeah. What  _did_  you think he was talking about to respond so breathlessly? Heart flutters in your chest the longer the silence between you two drags out. Noct’s face is impassive, not betraying a single emotion. You don’t know that he’s laughing at you in his head; laughing at the way you freeze up like a deer in headlights; laughing at how you instinctively mouth, “Oh, shit!” like he can’t see it.

You stopped being the cool, aloof, unattainable arcane advisor a long time ago. You stopped being taciturn within the first week of knowing Noctis. That’s never been more apparent than it is now. Shadows are cast over you as the clouds up above move along. To Noct, today has been a good day because he’s been able to spend time with you. But he’s hoping it can get better. He’d began to really hope for it the second you slid the first button on your shirt out of place.

It was a bit dumb how dizzy that made him feel.  _One_  button! You undid one button on your damn _shirt_  and completely undid  _him_. And right now, standing with you in this lake, Noct feels like he’s in a dream. Because this can’t be real, can it? Water reflects sunlight, making it dance along your bare skin, and Noctis forgets how to breathe. You’re acutely aware of how his gaze lowers to watch a bead of water drip down your chest.

“I-I don’t-” Ramuh must be looking out for you, because right as you start to freak out under Noct’s seemingly all-knowing gaze, the heavens part and you’re nearly drowned in a deluge of rain. “Oh, dammit!” The rain feels like icy pinpricks compared to the lake water. It’s positively sobering. “Okay, let’s  _go_. One lousy fish isn’t worth getting sick,” you gripe, struggling to wade back to land.

The sound of Noct’s laughter is nearly washed out by the din of raindrops pattering against the lake’s surface and the sound of you sloshing through the water, sputtering quite dramatically as if you’re on the precipice of drowning. A warm hand rests on your back, right between your shoulder blades, and it has two goals in mind: To  _actually_  help your poor, waterlogged self and just to touch you once more.

“You mean to tell me you won’t get sick to catch fish? Not even for my birthday?” Noct teases. He’s been grinning like a little imp the second you screamed. His teeth chatter, though, so at least you know he’s getting his comeuppance in some shape or form. Blue eyes shoot you furtive glances, trying to see more of you without you knowing it, without coming across  _completely_  tactless.

“Screw you and screw your damn birthday,” you huff, trying in vain to rub warmth into your arms the second you make it to (not so) dry land. Dirt sticks to your bare feet, slowly turning into mud as you race back to the pier to salvage your clothes. Noct is on your heels. Though he personally doesn’t take much issue with being caught in the rain, your urgency is a contagious thing.

The prince is stuck between being amused by your gruff declaration and being irritated by it. As he’s wont to do, he just watches you a moment while you struggle to put your clothes on before remembering that he’s supposed to be mildly offended. “I thought you were supposed to be  _nicer_  to someone on their birthday?” Noct points out, sounding particularly crabby. “Didn’t they teach you that at the Spire?”

“Nicer  _how_?” You snort but cut yourself off with a gasp when you nearly send yourself back into the lake, losing your balance as you attempt to wriggle your way into your pants to no avail. Half thinking, you joke, “Want me to kiss your cheeks all fancily like they do in the movies?”

Noct snorts right back, the two of you turning into highly contemptuous pigs in the rain. “For starters, maybe.”

“You want to joke around but how shocked would you be if I actually did it?” Voice is strained because pulling wet pants up your wet legs is proving to be next to impossible. Oh, no. What sort of mess have you got yourself into? You move on to your shirt which is easier to put on, even if you lose your grip on the little buttons more times than you’d care to admit. Listen, you’re buzzed and it’s pouring rain out. It’s not  _your_  fault.

But everything comes to a screeching halt when one challenging statement is made.

“You  _wouldn’t_ , so there’s no point in asking.”

Noctis knows what he’s doing, the little daemon. That competitive streak of yours comes roaring to life the second that blasé comment leaves his lips. You freeze in place despite being pelted by icy rain, shirt only half buttoned up. Eyes watch the royal attempt to tug his pants on, having as much trouble as you with sopping wet clothes and equally wet skin. The bitter side of you says to shove him into the lake like you wanted to before…

But the more determined, pigheaded side of you says to prove him wrong. He doesn’t hear you approach over the rain, but he can feel the flimsy pier shift and it’s a struggle for him to keep a self-satisfied smirk off of his face. Though you’re immensely clever, it’s  _so_  easy to play you when it comes to challenges. You reach over, place your hand on Noct’s cheek, and duck down to place a hasty kiss on his face.

You get his jaw, missing his cheek. Still, you act haughty, like that’s what you were aiming for. Backing off with your hands firmly on your hips and a smirk firmly on your lips, you gibe, “Did I take you by surprise? You look shocked. Yeah, I  _definitely_  took you by surprise.”

“Hm. No.” Noct is the real MVP when it comes to fighting off a blush. It’s as if the heat of your lips, no matter how brief that peck was, is seared right down into the bone, yet he continues to pull up his pants in earnest and he throws on his shirt. A taunting glance is shot your way. “Besides, you didn’t get both of my cheeks and you got my _jaw_. If anything, I'm surprised by how  _bad_ that was.”

Just like that, Noct is the pin to your balloon of an ego. Heat sears your cheeks. Honestly, you wouldn’t be surprised if steam started rising from them at this point. With one great tug, you yank your pants up and put your boots on. Eyes are downcast, teeth grit. “Y’know, Noct, you’re really pushing it and if you push it anymore, I don’t care if it’s your birthday or not, ‘cause  _I’m_  gonna push you into this damn la-”

All the warning you get of what’s to come are fingertips gently lifting your chin before lips press urgently against your mouth. It’s awkward and sloppy, considering you have your mouth open, cut-off mid-threat. The way you gasp seems to urge Noctis on, making him open his own mouth into the kiss. Eyes close instinctively. Everything buzzes. The sound of rain fades out, replaced by your thudding heartbeat.

A faint hint of whiskey is on his tongue as well as far too much sugar from that pink, strawberry and plastic flavored snack cake. You can taste clean rainwater and something that you can’t quite describe, something distinctly Noct. Those fingers on your chin are shaky, gliding along your jaw; making a slow journey to the back of your neck; memorizing the warmth and the feel of you.

At some point, it stops raining.

One warm hand grabs your waist, fingertips pressing into the soaked linen of your shirt before twisting the fabric. Snapped out of your shocked trance, you wrap your arms around him, hold him close until his body burns into you. Breath comes out heavy, more of a pant, desperate and so very needy. His grip on the back of your neck increases, pulling your head back to deepen the kiss. A shiver up your spine puts an end to it, snapping you back into reality.

It ends all too soon.

Legs feel like they’re made of jelly as you release your royal charge and step back, hand gently resting on his chest to keep him from following you. Frogs croak and birds chirp. The first thing you say is, “That wasn’t my cheek.” It’s silent for a second before Noct laughs. He laughs so hard that tears are in his eyes. A grin spreads across your face and you playfully shove him. “Ha ha. Yeah, I’m  _so_  funny. Anyway, uh, we should get back. The others are waiting.”

“Yeah,” Noct gasps, sides hurting from laughing at you so hard. Gods, the stunned look on your face as you said that? How your eyes were so wide, lips trembling at bit? It’s committed to memory now. He rights himself and begins to put away the waterlogged birthday breakfast, occasionally chuckling. “Okay.”

Headed back to camp now, fully dressed and still firmly on cloud nine, Noct has completely forgotten the sorrow of an unsuccessful fishing trip. Every now and then, blue eyes make their way to you. He purposefully bumps his hand against yours until you get fed up with the little games and firmly grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his. For Noct, this has been a _great_  birthday.


	66. 25. Haunter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’ve got this far, I just wanna give you a heads up that I’m going on a break for 3-4 years to accommodate grad school. I decided to move this notice from the first chapter to this one since the placement seemed odd. 
> 
> Anyway, side stories (i.e., AU ficlets and romance routes, etc.) for this fic can be found in the catch-all fic [“Strange Magic.”](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15557790/chapters/36117450) Please don’t expect much activity for this fic. I have assignments, tests, readings, and essays due every week. It’s pretty intense already and I’m writing this while I’m on Week 1 of graduate work.
> 
> Also, after much consideration (and hair pulling), I’ve decided that I’ll still take requests for this fic very, very tentatively. **Only make a request if you’re cool with it not getting filled for a long time**. Oh, and shoot it to [my tumblr](http://www.miniwrath.tumblr.com) ‘cause I actually see those since I’m almost never on ao3 unless I’m posting something. Requests that get posted via comment on here won’t be seen or filled.
> 
> **Warnings:** Strong Language, Bad Writing, Mage Weirdness, One Suspicious Daemon, One Sleepy Prince, Everyone's Favorite Trash King, The Other Mother, A Dash of Fluff, A Wealth of Angst, “““Lore”””

**25\. Haunter**

A sharp, sudden intake of breath rings out into the darkness. There’s no one around to hear it, no one around to be startled by the intrusion of the chimera. Alone, you awake. Memories have a fuzzy quality to them as you screw your eyes shut and sit up as if every movement is a pain. That’s not too far from the truth, but in this form you aren’t beleaguered by earthly troubles. Your reactions are psychosomatic because you know that you _should be_ in pain. 

In truth, you should be dead. 

“Oh, dammit,” you groan, rubbing the back of your head. Did you hit it? Did you fall? Eyes crack open and the air is stolen from your lungs. Darkness greets you. It’s a familiar darkness- not the type to be found in an empty room or a lonely cavern. It’s a darkness that seems to exude light from within. It’s an otherworldly darkness that you can see in yet you’re not for a second allowed to forget the encroaching, oppressive dark. One look around and you know you _shouldn’t be here_. 

This is a place that you can only reach through meditation. This is the place that spirits reside. Little do you know, it’s also the place that the gods occupy. 

Staring out at the countless stars that you’ll never be able to reach, you murmur, a quaver in your voice, “Oh... fuck.” 

The upgrade in your choice of expletive is warranted. As far as you know, you being here means you’re most likely dead because you didn’t _choose_ to come here. And if you didn’t choose to come here, then the only logical explanation is that...? What? If memory serves correctly, weren’t you just having coffee and tea with Lunafreya? Did you choke? Six, what a lame way to go after all you’ve been through. _Gods_ , what awful timing considering you still have so much to _do_ on Eos! 

Legs shake but you push through your discomfort to stand to your full height and bellow, “This isn’t fair!” Heels of boots scuff against nothing as you whirl around to confront an audience that you don’t have. “There’s still stuff to do! People to protect! _I’m not finished yet_!”

That indignant voice wobbles in the air before quickly dissipating like cheap incense. Your disdain falls on deaf ears. In truth, you really didn’t expect a response. The gods are hardly the type to be bargained with without something to offer up and, as far as you know, you’ve nothing to barter with. Except maybe your service? Oh, dammit. Never mind. Your entire _being_ was in servitude to the line of the Kings and to Ramuh and look where that’s got you. 

Ramuh certainly didn’t save you from choking on coffee or having an aneurysm or whatever. If Ramuh were to appear before you with a “get out of jail free” card, you’d honestly be shocked. And for nearly an entire minute, nothing happens after your outburst. Then suddenly the floor rolls under your feet like you’re standing on top of the ocean as it roils. It’s a signal that something has changed in this realm. Maybe your complaint _was_ heard? It isn’t until you turn around that you realize that you aren’t alone anymore. When you see _him_ , everything clicks- the puzzle pieces fall into place. 

You now know that you aren’t dead. This is much, much worse. 

A series of emotions rush forth, each fighting to maintain dominance before getting slapped down by another. Shock, fear, grief, and denial. Once you’re sure that you’re done with one, it comes bubbling right back up to replace another. All the while, you can’t take your eyes off of his huddled form. Dark hair falls across a pale forehead. Eyes are closed, expression soft and untroubled. The specter of a Mage watches over the King. 

The timing, on your part, is immaculate. Maybe it was the fact that the absence of your soul didn’t really have any _immediate_ dire consequences (what with it still being in the same realm as your body) that kept you from being vigilant? Because it didn’t hurt you, having it gone. The deal you made between yourself and Noctis didn’t hurt for as long as he was in this world with you. There was momentary discomfort, sure, but it was forgettable. This, however, won’t be. 

Lumis’ passage flickers before your eyes and you cover your face with your hands. 

Hypothetical “what if’s” haven’t been on your mind for a long, long time. Obsessively worrying about Lumis’ foreboding passages in the grimoire concerning the effects of long-term soul binds? That’s something you stopped doing the second the Niffs got their hands on you. Baseless fears (or at least seemingly baseless ones) had no place in your survival plan. Your ruse needed to be committed to fully in order to be buyable. And so you stopped worrying. You focused all your attention on playing the part. 

The chasm inside you was ignored. Now, it will be ignored no longer. Because Noctis is _gone_. 

And it wasn’t for a lack of thinking about you that he’s now complicit in your ruination. Because, _oh_ , he thought of you. Almost daily, almost obsessively, to tell the truth. But sometimes- some days- it was easier not to. It was easier to forget the mage. It was easier to ignore the warmth in his chest that often made him feel more lonely than comforted. You didn’t mean to hurt him by going away, but you did. He doesn’t mean to hurt you, either. But he does. 

You now realize that you’re here, in this realm, because that’s where Noctis is. Somehow he wound up here and his movement between realms pulled your soul along with him and effectively severed your body’s tie to your own soul. Physically or spiritually, he’s in the place where you capture daemonic spirits and attach them to yourself. That can mean many things. All you can do is speculate and pray to the gods that it’s not the worst one. 

Speculation won’t be had for the predicament that you find _yourself_ in, however. Your state is documented fact- an ominous warning from a mage long dead, a stern lecture from the world’s premier enchanter. You idiot. You complete and utter _fool_ of a mage. Remarkably, you want to laugh. Even as tears streak down your face you want to laugh at yourself for being the one to enslave your soul to Noctis and cast the rest of you into fire in the first place. A dead mage walking, is what you are. And you _aren’t_ looking forward to what awaits you in the mortal world. 

This pain won’t be something that you can ignore. It will burn you from the inside, seeming to scorch the marrow in your bones. It will make it impossible for you to bear being touched by another living thing, the light in their soul contrary to your very existence. You know what your fate is as the tears go rolling down your cheeks. There’s a vacuum within you now and things of like nature rush to fill it. Souls. In particular, _daemonic_ souls. 

Eyes close and you take a breath. You center yourself before opening your eyes once more. The tears don’t stop. Because the worst thing about all of this is that Noct might be dead. Why else- _How else_ could he be here with you right now? He looks strange, Noctis. A dreamy quality is about him but you have the distinct, gnawing feeling that he’s _not_ dead despite your fear. His skin almost glows in the darkness, so much like the stars that pepper this realm. 

The air around the prince buzzes with energy, you note. _That_ piques your interest. That’s a distinctly _alive_ feeling. “Noct?” He’s unfazed by your strained, phlegmy voice. Brow furrowed, you take a couple of steps toward him only to immediately stop in confusion. There’s no change in the distance between you two. A few more steps are taken with the same result. He’ll forever remain just out of your reach in this realm- too pure to be touched. A bitter smile reaches your face. “ _I’m_ ruined and _you_ sleep like a baby. Bastard.” 

“Now that you’ve realized that you made a terrible mistake, would you kindly come back to your body? Your soul is safe here with your king.” 

Only one other time has such a disappointed and authoritative tone ever made your heart nearly stop and that was when your grandfather caught you enchanting a random step on the Spire’s grand staircase to be just a hair taller than the others. What a borderline sadistic child you were. Whipping around so fast that the stars momentarily blur, you spot the daemon standing behind you with its sinewy arms crossed. “What are you-?” 

“He cannot hear you,” it curtly interrupts. Those boney arms fall to its sides and it walks toward you with its usual limping gait. Yellow eyes burn like hellfire, darting between you and the sleeping young man you stand before. Exposed teeth part but the words don’t come from the daemon’s mouth. “There’s nothing to be done here. We should leave.” 

Either not sensing the urgency in the daemon’s voice or too troubled yourself to care, you don’t immediately acquiesce to its desires like you usually do to the creature that has taken on a tutelary role to you. Instead, you stand your ground, expression obnoxiously defiant. Though questions can be asked and answered in the realm you call home, anxiety is currently shooting through the roof. You swear your stress levels have entered another plane of existence. Well, aside from _this_ one.

“Why is Noctis here?” You all but blurt. The daemon pauses. If it could, it would blink expectantly for you to continue. “All this time that he’s had my soul, I’ve _never_ seen him when I come here. He _feels_ alive- or at least different from the daemon souls that I bring here- so I know he likely isn’t dead but I’m also _extraordinarily paranoid_ now and still freaking out about all of this, so...” You take a breath to gather your wits and your nerve. “ _Is he_ dead?” 

“No.” The daemon answers swiftly so as not to leave you dangling in suspense. But in the very next breath it creates even more suspense. “This is Bahamut’s covenant. Your king is being prepared.” 

“For what?” Your perplexed expression is noted. Yellow eyes flicker over the slumbering prince- The One. 

“I don’t pretend to know what the gods plan. However, I _do_ know that he’s currently housed in Lucis’ Crystal where he is being prepared to act on behalf of the gods.” 

The Iovitas have never been privy to the intricate and intimate details of the covenants forged between the Kings and the Astrals. Your family has always served as a third party; tertiary in every way with an unspoken understanding to both know and stay in their place. Even if you’re dying of curiosity, you’re well aware of the fact that your role is of a protector, _not_ as Noctis’ equal. No matter how much the prince has tried to make you feel like his peer and maybe even like _family_ , you were raised to know better. 

It’s why you don’t presume to ask the daemon for the finer details of Noctis’ crystalline confinement. It’s why you won’t act entitled to the truth and will be accused of either being willfully ignorant or uncaring about the royal’s welfare. Despite all of your _spite_ toward the complacency of the ones who claim to govern Eos, you remain humble. At least in that way you honor your family. It sticks in your craw and you’ll never admit that you wish to have a higher standing in the world, but you accept your position. 

“As long as he’s safe,” you breathe a sigh of relief, fingers rubbing your eyes, “that’s all that matters to me.” 

“Really? I think those left in the mortal plane should matter to you, as well.” 

Such a wildly accusatory statement gives you pause. Offended, you scoff, “Well, _duh_. Of course they do.” 

Stars twinkle behind the daemon’s wretched head, casting its face in shadow and making its eyes glow. It isn’t mad at you. Far from it. But sometimes you need a bit of tough love to learn a lesson. And so far? You’ve been ignoring the daemon’s wishes to return to your world. This journey of yours across worlds can go on no longer. “If that’s true, then I suggest you return to your body, as I previously said.” 

You eye the creature curiously. There’s something guarded in the way it holds itself; raggedy shoulders hunched more than usual and a peculiar look in its unblinking eyes. “Is something else going on? You’re acting very strange.” 

A hiss of breath comes out from between its exposed teeth. “I’m merely impatient, sweet. I’ve given you time to get your bearings and to come to terms with the gravity of the situation that you’ve created for yourself, but you’ve been unconscious for weeks.” 

“Uncon- For _weeks_? Are you kidding me?” Mind flies to Lady Lunafreya. Oh, gods, what must she think? Oh, gods, _Drusa_! Both women must be dying of worry. Panic goes ratcheting right back up under the fallen mage’s mildly disapproving stare. You can feel your concentration breaking. The world begins to shake and wobble, flickering like some strange mirage around you. Wanting to capitalize on your turmoil and force you out of this state, the daemon speaks rapid-fire. 

“Why would I kid about that? (y/n), you’ve been comatose for nearly two weeks. I returned your body to the Spire at Lady Lunafreya and Lord Ravus’ insistence but there’s nothing anyone can do for you. _You_ must come back yourself. I know you must feel drawn to your soul in this realm but you cannot just leave your body.” Yellow eyes dart around the darkness. “One of your birth should be wary of attempting to walk with the gods once more, after all. Give up this folly and _wake up_.” 

Eyes snap open to a room flooded with flickering yellow light. Already, you recognize the gloomy space that is your Spire bedroom. Your throat jerks, finding it difficult (more like impossible) to swallow. A firm mattress presses against your backside, sheets tucked around you like you’re being fitted to be stuffed into a coffin or something remarkably old school like that. If only you could see yourself, you’d think you definitely need to be tossed into the ground. 

A dry rasp escapes you as you attempt to move. It’s a damn fight to get out of your blanket prison but luckily someone’s sitting by your bedside to help. “(y/n)! Oh, thank the gods!” Drusa leaps to your aid, opening a bottle of water that the daemon had told her to keep at the ready and handing it off to you. After you’ve gulped down two greedy mouthsful, the magister is holding you in a nearly crushing embrace. 

“Dru. I’m sorry to have-” Teeth grit at the sudden dull burn that quakes beneath your skin at every point of skin-on-skin contact. Her hand on the back of your neck is absurdly hot. Fingers against your upper arm feel like a warm knife melting through butter to the marrow in your bones. It takes tremendous effort not to cut her relief short and shove her away. For her sake, you bear it. Muscles are ordered to slacken appropriately. This must be hidden. “I’m sorry that I worried you.” 

Finally, _mercifully_ , the woman releases you. “It’s been so long. Everyone’s been so worried.” Dark, tear-filled eyes glance down at the tremor in your hand that holds the water bottle. Her lips purse. 

Seeking to distract her, you cheekily wonder, “ _Everyone_? Didn’t know the new workers grew so attached. Maybe I can expect birthday presents this year and not the usual unsigned Hallmark cards from the old magisters? You know I fired them specifically because of those damn cards, right?” 

Dru rolls her eyes and sits back in her wooden chair. Wait. No. _Your_ wooden chair. That damn chair has seen many a poison spill from where it typically sits at your alchemy table. “The mages _have_ been concerned for you but I meant your friends. They’re getting reckless with their letters.” 

“Wait. How did they know that I’ve been unconscious?” This is asked slowly and suspiciously. Oh, you aren’t liking where this is going. Maybe you should’ve just stayed in another plane of existence with Noct? Eh... It’s not like you can just astral project to avoid confrontation all the time. That’s hardly a way to live even though it’s an _incredibly attractive_ prospect. Especially now that Drusa has begun nervously drumming her fingers against her knee. 

Before she can respond, you get up and begin to try to walk to get some feeling back in your legs. Like a newborn faun, your legs tremble, but you wave off Dru’s offer of help. Everything is numbed and uncomfortable from being stationary for so long. Oddly enough, though, you aren’t hungry. Nearly two weeks in a sort of magic induced stasis and you aren’t hungry? Six, typically you have the appetite of a damn bear preparing for hibernation. 

_“Well, it’s not called ‘stasis’ for no reason,”_ you blandly think as you wobble around. _“Too bad my limbs didn’t get the memo.”_

Everything about your room is as you left it. The books of various size and spinal abuse are without a speck of dust on the bookcase that takes up the entirety of the far left wall, your curio cabinet by the window is still stuffed with little trinkets that you’d given dangerous enchantments, and your alchemy table remains laden down with pre-prepared ingredients for potions you’d intended on finally cooking up. The only difference is that someone removed the sheets you’d put on your ancestors’ portraits. 

It’s as you’re taking a _very_ slow turn about the room that Drusa finally admits, “I allowed your friends to visit you. They came with the intention of officially relieving you of your job as a spy and they wanted to take you with them but,” Dru sighs and shakes her head irritably, “I couldn’t let them. I hope you understand. But when I saw how they were looking at you I _knew_ they wouldn’t go without causing a scene so, I must confess, I called the guards on them.” 

You gape, clinging to your bedpost. “You ran my friends out of the Spire? What the fuck?” 

“(y/n).” 

“I know, I know,” you sigh, waving your hand about dismissively. The bed dips when you sit heavily at the foot of it. Looking over your shoulder at the magister, you pout out your bottom lip and mimic her voice, “ _Language_.” 

“ _No_. Not that. I only meant that I had my reasons.” A weighty implication rests in her words. Drusa has always been easy for you to read because she’s without guile. Her eyes are hard, expression stressed and worried. A hint of anger is there, too, but it’s not with you. This look on her face is one that you’ve grown familiar with since you started your tumultuous reign as Arch- Mage. 

“Yeah. You said you wanted me to recover,” you reply airily, taking another sip of water. You’re forced to look away when her disapproving stare becomes too intense. Firelight flickers over the ashy stone walls. Tension hangs heavily in the air as it always does when one person in particular is on Drusa Alomar’s mind. “Oh, and I suppose you must’ve been concerned about how Ardyn might have reacted if I’d been spirited away.” And there it is. 

Fabric shifts and sighs as Drusa stands from her chair. Colorful robes spill softly against the floor and they drag all along her way to you. The magister comes to stand before you, hands resting elegantly behind her back and chin tucked down so that she can gaze down at you. Though her expression is gentle her tone is stern. “You should never have allied yourself with that man, (y/n). He’s always had an obsession with you since you were a child. It’s unseemly and unnatural, to put it kindly.” 

Your adoptive mother’s contempt for the man is nothing new to you. She and Decima were always of the same mindset where Ardyn was concerned. But it’s your new _self-made_ tie to the man that sets her teeth on edge. It has since the moment you revealed to her that you were playing spy and that your primary target was _Ardyn Izunia_ , of all the people on the damn planet. With a demure smile, you ask the older woman, “And if you could put it _un_ kindly?” 

Dru sucks her teeth and snaps, “I’d say he’s a sociopathic pervert.” She’s quick to respond, tone icy, and you almost feel bad for wanting to laugh. “But, of course, I’d _never_ say that in proper company.” 

“How did you coordinate a meeting with my friends, by the way? I didn’t even know you were in contact with them.” 

Unperturbed by the sudden topic change, Drusa shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. Clearly this is a nonissue for her. “I don’t see the harm in telling you. The Lucian military planted an informant among the workers about a week after you began working as Arch-Mage,” the magister easily admits. 

You’ve been _spied on_ by the Lucians? 

Carnelian eyes dance across your face, not understanding why it has gone so eerily placid. 

Spying, to you, has always held certain connotations. Who gets spied on? That’s easy: Untrustworthy folk. People like your old pal Ardyn. So... Does it hurt that you’ve seemingly lost the trust of those you care for most? Because _why else_ would they have someone _spying_ on you? All of Ardyn’s teasing words come rushing back to you. He had warned you that everyone would turn their back on you. What he didn’t tell you was that you would be the one to make them turn. 

Self-reflection isn’t anything that you’ve ever really needed to concentrate on. It was a vital part of your training and was deeply ingrained in you from an early age even outside of training to be the arcane advisor to the next King of Lucis. Being self-aware has always been important. It’s why you can’t plead ignorance when every bad choice you’ve ever made is brought to light. Every choice you’ve made has been ruminated over. You’ve no defense. 

So, to answer the previous question, _yes_. Of course it hurts to know that your friends and even _Drusa_ were content to have you spied on because they either don’t trust your judgment or thought you grossly incompetent (and you _might have_ proved them right). But you cannot allow yourself to be governed by emotion. Even given how your spell has backfired remarkably, you’ve a clear goal in mind: For your king, kingdom, and its people to survive. And if that means you’ll end up alone in the end, then so be it. 

It’s better to be hated and help save the world than to be loved and watch everything burn. 

You sigh with that lovely thought in mind. Exhausted both mentally and physically, you glance up at Drusa and smile. “Thank you for watching over me. I know everything you did was because you were looking out for me.” 

“Honestly, the fact that you think you have to _thank_ me-” 

“Dru. I love you.” 

A big grin breaks out across her face and the magister reaches out to tap your forehead. “I love you, too, you absolute hellion. I can’t believe the trouble you’ve caused and most of it when you were unconscious.” 

“ _Ooh_. Were you terribly worried?” You drawl, leaning back on one of your hands. 

“If I were a lesser woman I would slap you.” You laugh at her non-threat and she smiles. But her smile quickly falters. Arms crossed, Dru takes a few steps back to lean against your alchemy table. “I wish I could talk to you longer but you have an urgent visitor. He’s been here since-” she hesitates but decides that it would be best to simply tell you the truth, “The _chancellor_ has been here since he was alerted that there was a break-in.” 

Water goes down the wrong way and you’re left to sputter for a few moments with that damn water bottle in hand before you can finally wheeze out, “What kind of _idiot_ would break into the Spire? Everyone living in this damn place should be tripping all over themselves to break _out_.” 

She’s totally deadpan. “I’m referring to the false flag I threw, (y/n). He was made aware of your friends’ intrusion and was likely fed the lie that I told his mercenaries about your ‘former allies’ coming here to confront you. Although I _never_ said as much, now rumor has spread that your bedridden state was the direct cause of some sort of confrontation between yourself and the Crown Prince’s inner circle.” 

Although that unfortunate rumor is somehow both absurd and hilarious, you find yourself slowly asking, “ _By the way_... Does anyone know why I was unconscious for as long as I was?” 

“Yes,” Dru replies primly, carding her fingers distractedly through the folds of her robe and its various colorful shifts. She keeps her eyes politely to the floor. “Your comrade informed both myself and your friends of the enchantment you cast on your soul.” 

Regret and embarrassment hit you hard and fast. In the midst of trying to find the appropriate way to explain yourself to the magister, your brain short-circuits and focuses on something else. “Drusa, I know it might seem insane but I- Wait. My _comrade_?” 

“Orion.” You freeze. Drusa walks toward the door with a soft sigh. “I know what it is, (y/n). How could I not? I was there when the man went missing. To tell the truth, I always blamed myself back then for not being attentive. The whole reason I came to the Spire was because I promised your mother that I would watch over you.” Dark fingers toy with the doorknob. “But then when she was grieving- or rather _refusing_ to grieve over her father and sister- I stopped paying attention." 

You stand. “Dru...” 

“It was inevitable that someone would swoop in on you during that harrowing time.” She looks at you sadly from over her shoulder. “Do you recall that? All those years ago with Magister Orion?” 

“It’s fuzzy. But,” you take a shaky breath, “I remember summoning the daemon and I remember that I let it kill him.” 

She shakes her head, clearly aggravated. “That wasn’t your fault. You were a child, (y/n), and everyone around you-” Drusa stops to gather herself. She swallows hard. “We failed you. _I_ failed you. I left you open and vulnerable to that vulture of a man and it took a _daemon_ to make sure he didn’t succeed in killing you. I don’t intend on ever failing you again.” 

It’s quiet between you two. All this time, you hadn’t known that something like that had weighed so heavily on such a seemingly carefree woman’s mind. Hell, _you’d_ forgotten all about it until recently! Then again, that was likely due to the trauma of seeing a man get eaten alive but... 

From the doorway, Drusa informs you, “I’ll allow you a few minutes to get yourself ready before sending the chancellor in.” 

You look at her with her face shrouded in shadow from the lonely corridor outside. Firelight catches the gold thread in the old shawl that she has draped around her shoulders. The thing sags so low that it goes below her waist. If you recall correctly, you gave her that shawl as a birthday present when you were twelve. Trying to look as reassuring as possible, you offer the magister a charming grin and say, “Thank you.” 

Dru ducks her head and then the door is shut soundlessly behind her. All alone in your bedroom, you sit back down on the foot of the bed and sigh heavily. My, what a mess you’ve made for yourself and _of_ yourself. Your friends know what you did to your soul and Noctis is off taking a nap in the Crystal. And to top it all off, Ardyn is here to likely rub it all in your face. Water is polished off and you set about peeling your weeks-old clothes off of yourself. Fresh robes are thrown on and you get to brooding, as you’re wont to do. 

_“Six, but this is a mess.”_

Your friends know what you did and so does Drusa, the one woman in the world who can guilt trip you to hell and back with only a glance. Well... Look on the bright side: _At least_ the daemon already ratted you out. Now you don’t have to go through the stress of figuring out how to tell them what you did. All you have to do is muster up the strength to concisely and effectively explain _why_ you would do something that likely sounds absolutely batshit to them. 

Speaking of the daemon... Where is it? You haven’t spotted it or sensed it anywhere near you since you woke up. Is it hiding? Is it still in that other realm? Just as you’re preparing to call out to it, there’s a knock on your door, a quick _tap! tap! tap!_ that’s both formal and familiar. Hissing a curse under your breath for the meeting that you aren’t prepared for, you crook your index finger and have the door swinging open as you order, “Enter.” 

Ardyn waits on the threshold a moment before waltzing in, shutting the door behind himself. Golden eyes rove over your face. The chancellor takes a seat that you gesture toward. It’s a little sitting area with what’s supposed to be a coffee table placed in front of the bookcase. It used to double as your dining area in your youth since nobody but your mother or Dru would sit with you in the dining hall. Back then, you’d prefer to seem _mysterious_ by supping in your room rather than _pathetic_ by having your fellow students see that you only had two friends with one of them being your own mother. You regret not eating with her. All of that time wasted over teenage drama... 

Those regrets are brushed aside, as they always are, and you go to sit down across from the eerily quiet redhead. The two of you sit in tandem. Mismatched and garish clothes are still worn by your former childhood friend. You’ll never understand how Ardyn’s style can be so outlandish and yet he can blend into a crowd if he so desires. At least the light from the fireplace takes the edge off of some of that color. Clashing patterns are still, unfortunately, very visible. 

Tension is evident in the way he moves; muscles coiled tight beneath those garish clothes, jaw wound up and clenched. For days, he's waited for you to awake. For days, he's feared that you opted to stay gone, entreated by Ramuh to return to his side once and for all; the Fulgurian's fool, a replacement for the original child that he left to die on this rock. It wouldn't be the first time that Ramuh revealed his infinite cruelty toward the Accursed. Ardyn's fascination with you hasn't gone unnoticed. Ramuh was tempted to save you- to take you away. But then the daemon came. 

For a long time, all there is between you and Ardyn is the sound of the crackling fireplace. This doesn’t bode well. When you can take it no longer, you opt for a joke. “Is this what it takes to get you to visit me?” You wonder, breaking the silence first. Leaned back in your chair, as causal as can be, you drawl, “Weeks go by without you so much as phoning to see if I’ve adjusted well to my new position. Do I have to be rendered unconscious every time I want to bend your ear for a chat?” 

“I apologize if I neglected you at all, my dear. I have kept quite a busy schedule, as you know,” simpers Ardyn. Even with that supplicant’s affect, his eyes are like chips of ice set in a face of stone. Well, he’s not even trying, is he? The redhead must be truly pissed with you if he can’t even be bothered to offer you a buyable ruse. Unlucky you. 

Fingers drum against your knee from under the table. “Well, I wouldn’t say I felt _neglected_ ,” you muse. Too bad Ardyn isn’t biting and won’t entertain mindless chatter. 

The chancellor takes his time to respond, placing his hands atop the table. “I heard the strangest rumor during the time that I took up residence here to await your recovery.” A smile hardens his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Many believe that your former allies who broke into the Spire are the reason why you were comatose. Of course, you and I both know there is not an ounce of truth to such a rumor. I wonder if you fully know the implications of what you’ve done to yourself, mageling.” 

You return his smile. You ignore the sting that his words carry or the way he infantilizes you with his pet names. “I’m not sure if I’ve said it yet but it won’t hurt to repeat the sentiment: I think it’s simply _lovely_ of you to visit me when I’ve taken ill. As you said, you’ve been busy. Surely duty must call you back to Niflheim.” 

Your unsubtle order for him to go back to where he came from is brushed aside. “Suppose one can call this a type of illness, _enthrallment_.” Golden eyes bore through you. Gods, you don’t know if the bastard has blinked since he got here. “I always knew you would allow that boy to make a fool of you. Oh, how you have debased yourself with zealous glee. A useful idiot until the bitter end,” he sneers. 

Unsure as to exactly why _Ardyn_ (the one man who has done nothing but play head games with you since the two of you met) actually seems to be upset with this latest development with you and your soul, you’re taken aback. “Although I’d love to stay and continue to listen to you hiss sweet nothings from off of the tip of that forked tongue of yours, I have somewhere to be.” At Ardyn’s unmoved expression, you almost gloat, “Without Noctis, I have no reason to stay here and pretend to be a dutiful Arch-Mage. Obviously.” 

“You’re leaving, are you?” 

Oh, what an ingrate you are, thinks Ardyn. The youngest Arch-Mage to run the Spire and the first arcane advisor to the emperor of Niflheim (even though, unbeknownst to his dear mage, there’s no longer an emperor of Niflheim)? All in all, Ardyn tells himself that he's given you a good life since you set out into the world. Too bad it will be one of isolation. Too bad it won't be very _good_ for long. Too bad he knows you're going to burn it all down long before he can burn the world itself. 

“Yes,” you say, as if confirming that dark little fear of his. “You can’t keep me here. No one can.” 

He chuckles and shakes his head. That laugh... You’ve never heard him laugh like _that_ before. Yes, there are the mirthless laughs, the ones of the sycophant. He employed that one often. But this one? It’s crisp on the air, has a fine edge that slices through the silence between you. With one elegant flourish, he removes his hat and begins to toy with the brim, as if distracted. You know better. The man can be called many things but “distracted” isn’t one of them. It’s a tic. The type to keep his hands busy so they can’t be employed for something else. 

“No,” he says, tone light and airy to offset the rough way that he’s begun rubbing the brim of his hat between his thumb and forefinger, “you aren’t leaving here.” 

With Noctis away for gods only know how long, Ardyn will be fixated on you. Now all there is is the waiting. And the waiting isn’t even the hard part- Ardyn’s done lifetimes of it already. But he’s a bitter, lonely soul. A bitter, lonely soul that you made the mistake of entreating. Like a stray cat that was fed only once, he keeps coming back around for more. Because you? You’re a wonderful distraction. And Ardyn is covetous and nostalgic at heart, even if one will be hard-pressed to get him to admit it. 

Eyebrows rise and you tut, “Excuse me?” 

“You aren’t leaving,” Ardyn repeats politely, as if your question is due to you not hearing him correctly. That ugly hat of his is placed back on top of his head of messy magenta hair. 

Cupping your chin in your hand, you lean forward and plant your elbow on the table. Bemused, you probe, “Oh? Go on and tell me why I would choose to remain _here_ \- the backdrop of many a horrible memory- rather than leave?” 

“You only say you’ll leave because you have a reason to leave. There are people waiting for you just beyond these grounds. You had forsaken them but we both know that was nothing more than a ruse. Perhaps they did, too.” Ardyn leans back in his chair, eyes as unblinking as a cat’s. “We put on a great show, did we not? I had the emperor show you off to the world, to his empty empire. And if you leave now, when the show has just begun, I’m afraid the curtain might have to drop on a few pretty heads.” He’s amused to find that you’re unamused. 

“Your threats are usually far more veiled than this. Have you not slept well? My, my, I must have _really_ worried you.” 

Ardyn is not the type of person that one runs out on. He’s not the type of person to be ignored or denied anything. His moral character and capacity for evil preclude him from these things. Yet you’ll do all of the above. Again and again. He knows you well enough to know that you will. It’s why he finds it necessary to bare his teeth in what’s supposed to be a charming smile and query, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you have a lover? Close friends, too? My, how the time flies. They must miss you dearly.” 

“Stop.” 

Now he smiles and he means it. “Are you asking me for a favor? How novel. You’ve only ever asked me for one thing and that was for me to stay with you.” 

“And that was years ago and you didn’t. I know what your word is worth, Ary: absolutely nothing. Unless, of course, you can spin it in such a way that whatever is asked of you will manage to benefit you in the end. Alas, you can’t profit off of my comfort. Therefore I ask absolutely nothing of you.” 

He doesn’t like that. Golden eyes simmer, shrouded by dark lashes. “Perhaps they would _all_ like to see you again, your _close friends_? It may take some time, as you know, and I’ll have to rework my schedule, of course, but I wouldn’t miss your reunion for the _world_.” 

“Enough.”

“What was that, dearest?” 

Breath is shallow. It comes stuttering up into your chest where it gets held close before it’s released. Before, you lost so much sleep because you feared for Noctis. So many research holes were fallen down only for you to come crawling back up, unsuccessful. You feared for his safety against Ardyn’s rage. Prompto, Ignis, and Gladiolus were merely unfortunate bystanders- only in harm’s way if they got too close. So, back then, you didn’t really have to worry about guarding them against Ardyn because he was _so focused_ on Noct. Now? The focus of his ire is gone. 

Without the distraction that Noctis provided, Ardyn can set his sights on the others. Because now it’s not merely Noctis that he wants to terrify and “teach” a lesson to: It’s _you_. And you know Ardyn is the type to weaponize love, you know of the wealth of hate that can be found in that man. Those fathomless gold eyes watch you closely and you feel like he can read your mind. It’s all in the eyes, what you’re thinking. Ardyn can see the hatred for him and the concern for those people whom he believes don’t deserve a shred of your sympathy in those wicked, wicked eyes of yours. 

Hate him if you so desire, he doesn't care. For the time being, he wants you alive. He wants you alive and all to himself in that selfish, selfish way of his to fill that gaping chasm in his heart that can never be filled by you. Friendship had been offered years ago and he'd rejected it- rejected _you_. It matters not if your friendship is no longer being offered. Your presence, your company, is what he seeks to pass the brief time in which he will wait for Noctis to return. Then, everything can end. 

This is the long game. Lips part and curl up at the corners. You nod your head once, eyes not leaving his for a single second. “I understand.” 

You’ve always understood. 

* * *

There must be some invisible hand in your chest that grips your heart and twists and twists until you’re brought to your knees. Panic. No. _Worse_ than that. It could never be said that you feared Ardyn Izunia until today. You were wary, sure, but there was still that title that you so generously bestowed upon him that kept fear at bay: Friend. Even in the wake of his treacherous deeds, even in the wake of cold-blooded _murder_ , Ardyn was still your friend.

Until he wasn’t. 

Already the blood of one friend stains his hands and he told you in no uncertain terms that he’ll be glad to drown you _both_ in it if you dare step out of line. Out of line of what? What boundaries are there, exactly? Suppose it’s the terms of whatever cursed life of servitude that your mother and the daemon damned you to in order to save you. Funny how the gift they thought they were giving you comes with blood and chains. 

Sat at the foot of your bed, the daemon finds you. Ardyn has been gone nearly an hour. 

Shoulders shake with every breath, a panic attack slowly being pushed down, down, down. Yellow eyes like hellfire watch. It doesn’t say anything, knowing you better than the rest. And because it knows you, it knows its lies can’t last forever. Its deception has already been confronted by three Astrals and the Accursed. First Shiva when it bargained for the Oracle’s body, then Ramuh and Bahamut when it was caught too close to the King. 

“Do you dare show your _true_ face to the King of Kings, Deceiver? Bend your knee and speak your name or begone with you.” 

Always with contempt, the other Astrals follow Ramuh’s lead and turn away from that wretched thing, leave it to wander aimlessly as it stumbles through its hellish afterlife. All but Shiva. So compassionate but crafty, part of her bargain for the Oracle’s body was something truly valuable. The daemon _must_ tell you its name. It must discard the lies it chooses to shroud itself in and reveal itself to you- set itself free. But the shame of it all... 

It fears it can run from the truth no longer. 

The two Mages are getting closer to the edge. You wonder how you can take care of your friends if you aren’t by their side, how you can say that you’re protecting them while serving the man who terrorized them. The daemon wonders how it can continue to call itself your ally if it won’t even let you close enough to tell you its name and reveal its relation to you. You both fear rejection. You both let that fear motivate you and debase you. 

The two of you remain in silence, the only sounds being that of the crackling fireplace and the faint pattering of raindrops against glass. Despite Ardyn’s fear-mongering, you find yourself wanting to seek out your friends to ask for forgiveness. How will he know if you left if you sneak out with the daemon? If you lock your bedroom door and are only gone for a few minutes? Already you’re testing the limits of the redhead’s restraint. A running theme. 

You’ll give Ardyn a million reasons to come down to the Spire again, and again, and again. You’ll go to other countries entirely. You’ll find yourself in caves, far away forests, and even beneath waves. Each time he’ll seek you out while you’re traipsing about the world, helping the people whose lives he’s ruined, or he’ll be waiting for you in the Spire. It’s strange. He’ll run and you won’t pursue him. Like a parent with a petulant child, you’ll wait for him to tire himself out and know that he’ll come back. 

You’ll never go looking for him, never lift a finger to have him found. Perhaps it’s because you have the “luxury” of knowing that he’ll always come back? That he’ll always find you? And Ardyn? He doesn’t have that. In his experience, when the people he cares for go away, they never, _ever_ come back. By the end of it, you’ll both wonder how he lasted so long. By the end of it all, you’ll both wonder how he only murdered you three times. 

There’s going to be something oddly cathartic in your murders for both Ardyn _and_ the daemon. The act of killing the one who looks like the past and the act of reviving, or being there to _save the Mage_ , is... It’s something neither one will be able to properly describe, to put words to. At some point, they’ll subconsciously stop viewing you as a person. At some point, they’ll subconsciously start viewing you as a concept. 

Finally, you address the other party in the room to update it on this latest development. “He’s not letting me go.” The daemon changes skin to come sit by you on the bed. A pale hand grabs yours, rubs soothing circles into the back of your hand with a thumb that actually has skin. It knows who you speak of. It knew this day would come. “I don’t even understand _why_... Noct isn’t even _here_ to witness the guy’s sick games.” 

Everything is building up. You’ve buried yourself under a mountain of grief and are just now realizing it. You started young. So early with the lies, not looking your mother in the eye after you traded life for necromancy. Now it feels like it’s catching up to you. But the daemon knows... it knows that your reckoning has yet to begin. This is merely a taste of the despair that you’ll experience over the coming years. The mountain will grow with you interred within. 

“Perhaps he believes it might hurt your king to know that you were alone for so long,” the daemon responds, knowing full well how skillful Ardyn is at making others hurt. As its memories have returned, the ones in which he hurt the creature have been most prominent. They taste bitter like ink. “He does have quite a soft heart, Noctis. Imagine his grief to learn that you had been isolated all along.” 

The daemon realizes its mistake as soon at it leaves its lips. Your hand goes stiff beneath its own. Wicked eyes turn on the creature and you hesitate to ask, “So lo- _How long_ are we talking here?” 

Well, before the daemon was ordered out of the realm by Bahamut, it was able to read the slumbering prince’s energy. That low thrum intermixed with the energy of the Astrals’ hinted at a long, magical process; a long spell and a skillful enchantment involving the souls of previous Kings. A “timestamp” couldn’t properly be gauged, but... The shoulders of Orion Spiros rise and fall. “Maybe years-” 

“ _Maybe years... Maybe years..._ ” The more you think it, the more absurd and frightening it sounds. You don’t even hear what else the daemon says. 

“ _Years_?” You’re standing now, staring down incredulously at the daemon as it folds its hands on its lap. “The gods are going to have Noct play caterpillar for _years_?” And you didn’t even get to say goodbye? A real, genuine farewell? 

Warm, chocolate brown eyes gaze up at you from a placid face. “Fret not, (y/n). Look at it from this perspective: your king is being prepared, he’s being made stronger to face the darkness that would seek to destroy the world. Without this preparation, our star would die. This is for the best.” 

Not fully knowing that Noctis’ soul is also going to be used to purge Eos, the daemon believes its words to be a comfort in this moment. Not privy to all that the Astrals have planned because it, like Ifrit, is no longer considered an ally and is viewed as a threat to the world that the gods have sworn to protect, the daemon is confident that Noctis will come out victorious. His fate, after all, is what it had wished for its own dear friend so long ago. And it never would’ve wished death on that man. 

Temporarily placated by the creature’s words, you sigh and turn to go and fetch your traveling cloak to throw it on over the finery you’d donned for Ardyn’s visit. Your words are periodically interrupted by the grating sound of a metal hanger sliding against the metal bar in your armoire as you search for the cloak. “Yeah,” you sigh. “I _guess_. But in the meantime, I have to get word out to my friends.” 

I mean, you have to get word out to Lady Lunafreya _and_ Lord Ravus, too, but your close friends take priority right now because you know that the last time they saw you, you were in a bit of a state, to put it lightly. They must be sick with worry. 

“Your friends?” The exasperation that lances through the daemon’s voice makes you roll your eyes for the inevitable lecture. “(y/n), though I do so enjoy indulging you, did you not just tell me that Ardyn _Izunia_ forbade you from leaving your post? He’s having you watched, I’d presume, and he’s still inside this college, as a matter of fact. What you have to _do_ is bide your time and act appropriately.” 

Ignoring how the daemon oddly stresses Ardyn’s surname, you snort, “Bide my time, you say. And how long will that be? _Years_ like with Noctis’ stay in the Crystal? I think the fuck not. I’ll not have my friends’ last memory of me be what they saw in my damn bed.” 

“Their last memory?” Warm breath hits the back of your neck and you flinch, having not realized that the daemon had got up to stand behind you. Six, this thing sure has no personal boundaries. 

Folding your cloak over your forearm and slamming the armoire shut, you round on the daemon and snap, “You’ve never really sugarcoated anything for me, daemon. My soul is lost. It’s now permanently Noctis’ until he comes back and chooses to return it to me. As much as you liked to harangue me about having not read Lumis’ passage closely, I _did_ and I know that I’ll die either from the misuse of daemon souls- which is going to soon be my _only_ source of magic- or from the gradual wear and tear that soulless bodies encounter in a world that’s unkind to them. One will have me meet my maker sooner than the other. To use-” 

“I could have you live forever.”

Such a strange interruption leaves you momentarily stunned. Incredulous, you wonder, “At what cost? My _sanity_? Would you have me imprisoned in a body that causes me nothing but endless pain?” 

Those dark brown eyes are unblinking, the daemon suddenly gripped by fear and dread. “I won’t lose you.” It sounds breathless, that statement merely a whisper in the air. 

Like many things, you gloss over the seriousness of what the daemon says. You don’t read it as a warning like you should. In a few years, you’ll learn that you should have paid attention to this comment. You’ll rue the day that you didn’t properly address the daemon’s obsession with you. You’ll rue it as you’re forced to do exactly as you speculated: to live in agony because this sad, desperate creature won’t allow you to die and escape such a miserable life. 

It’s a double-edged thing, for the daemon’s mistreatment of you will be viewed as your penance for your misuse of magic and obstruction of natural law. 

“Learn to say your goodbyes as the years pass. I won’t be rendered useless to this world by my own mistake. My magic,” you sigh, a tension headache creeping up on you, “will leave me and it’ll happen quickly. When it does, I’ll trade my life to use the daemon souls as an alternative source of magic. Tell me the cost each time and I’ll try to keep from croaking too soon.” That joke isn’t appreciated. You appreciate it, though. It makes it easier to come to terms with the fact that you won’t live a long life. 

Still not blinking, the daemon comes so close to you that you’re almost chest to chest. You keep your arm firmly between the two of you, guard raised. “Why not abstain from magic, (y/n)? You could use me as your proxy. Tell me what you want done and I’ll do it. I swear I will.” 

So close, you can smell the sickly sweet musk of decay that hides under such pretty skin. Nostrils flare in both irritation and disgust. “I’m the arcane advisor, the Arch-Mage, _the_ Mage. I won’t have you do my work for me.” Oh, the folly of pride. You’re still ashamed of the fact that you summoned the daemon in the first place and allowed everything to snowball. 

“And what of your friends? What of your _lover_?” Skilled in the art of manipulation, the daemon knows exactly where to hit you... but not today. Today, you won’t be swayed by such petty needling. Not when you know that you have so much to make up for, so much to explain and attempt to atone for. It’s why, even with the threat of Ardyn, you won’t be held hostage and allow ill feelings to fester. At least not right now. 

“I’m leaving to go and apologize. Sound the alarm if you catch word that Ardyn is coming to smack my hand with a ruler.” 

“Oh, he’ll do much more than that, I’m certain.” 

You ignore that warning. “And we’ll both allow it.” The daemon’s face tightens. “I’ll endure whatever he wants so long as I keep his attention off of everyone else. He’s... fixated on me, for some reason. Odd and disturbing as that may be, at least it means he’s not fixated on someone else.” 

“You mean your allies.” 

“Yes.” 

With a defeated sigh, knowing that you’ll not be swayed today, the daemon beckons for your cloak and you hand it over. One hand pushes on your shoulder, signaling for you to turn around. You comply easily. “I’m certain they’ll forgive you,” tuts the daemon as it flicks your cloak out and begins to pluck lint off of it. You really should start separating your dark clothes from your lighter ones. And the daemon really should stop transforming into animals that shed. 

Bewildered by this sudden vote of confidence after all that work the creature put into dissuading you from going out, you guffaw, “What?” 

“Every Iovita has their charms. Some have been breathtakingly beautiful like Florus the Seer and others were made attractive by their might, like Aela the Banisher. You? You’ve a certain... magnetism. These charms were to make the Iovitas more readily acceptable to humans, who are a very aesthetic race. Your friends will forgive you because not only have they been taken in by your charms, but they have come to care for you as a person.” 

Ignoring the dull warmth of a blush that kisses your cheeks, you point out the elephant in the room. “Um. What’s with the implication that I’m not human?” 

There’s a flurry of fabric as the cloak is set about your shoulders, pale hands coming around you to tie the laces at your throat. “Well, you _are_ human but your ancestor, the first, certainly wasn’t. It was obvious in their appearance, which the first changed. Pointed ears, claws, and horns aren’t features most humans find comforting and your ancestor chose beauty over function.” It sighs wistfully, “Those horns were wonderful weapons, though.” 

“How long have you been around?” You wonder, ‘cause it really must’ve been a long time considering the daemon was able to see your _first_ ancestor. 

“Millenia,” the creature easily admits. “I’ve walked Eos since the scourge took root and festered in the bowels of this planet.” 

“And you’re telling me that my first ancestor wasn’t human?” 

A smile tugs up pink lips, making them curl over white teeth. “You’ve read the stories, dear. Your ancestor was summoned to Eos by the Fulgurian. Does that sound human to you?” 

You pause a moment, a scowl on your face as the daemon dotes on you. “But _I’m_ human.” You don’t sound as sure of that statement as you’d like. 

A secret of your birth and the lineage of every Iovita. The reason why you’ve endured and will continue to endure things that would fell any mere mortal. A consequence of a creature that loved humanity perhaps too much before it succumbed to the corruptions of the flesh; to jealousy, pride, foolish devotion, and finally to the scourge itself. Before it fell to any of those terrible things, it first fell for a human, not knowing that it would spawn offspring but all too happy to look after those offspring even in death. 

“ _Yes_ , you’re human,” the daemon reassures you. Then, under its breath when you’ve refocused your attention on getting dressed in your traveling cloak, it murmurs, “Mostly.” 

Whipping around to frown at it, you scoff, “Would you stop with that? I don’t need an existential crisis right now. I’ve a lot on my plate as it is!” You pause to really think about all of that. “But it would’ve been pretty cool to have horns.” 

The daemon halts in its newly adopted role as butler. It remembers a charming smirk and a chuckle of, “I liked you better when you had horns, my friend. Now you try to look pretty for another.” With a faraway look in its eye, the daemon smooths the cloak about your shoulders and lifts the dark hood over your head. “I’ll take you to your allies,” it says softly, “but don’t be too long. Ardyn isn’t the type of man to abide such disrespect.” 

“Yeah.” You smirk even as dread pools in your gut, bringing a tremor to your hands that you attempt to play off. “I know.” 


End file.
